


The Return of the Swallow

by lciel



Series: The Seed that Burst into Flame [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Betrayal, Complicated Relationships, Curses, Gen, Intrigue, It Gets Worse, Nilfgaard, POV Multiple, Politics, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Post-Hearts of Stone (The Witcher 3 DLC), Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Witcher Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-08 06:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14688420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lciel/pseuds/lciel
Summary: In retrospect, Geralt reckoned, life would have been easier if they had stayed on Skellige, away from the world. The worst you faced there was a rampant cockatrice high on mushrooms, or the singing voice of uncle Mousesack. All you had to do was kill the monster and plug wax in your ears when the hour of a feast had turned late and the mead casks much lighter. Life was simple, life was good – until a messenger brings dire news from the continent. Called back to a world from which they were hidden, believed dead by most, Ciri and Geralt have to face the problems and people they left behind. The thing with that world, Geralt thought, was that somehow you ended up in the middle of portals, politics, and angry sorceresses, never quite knowing how you got there, what the hell you were supposed to do about it.





	1. The Message

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/gifts).



> Ok, just a brief introductory comment: This story arc is 90.000+ words, and will be updated in batches as I finish of the later acts of the series. As all authors, I truly appreciate feedback very much, so if you like it, leave a comment. This story is a gift to Astolat because 1) I love her Emhyr/Geralt series; and 2) I use her Emhyr as an inspiration. This story will take more than 60.000 before featuring any Emhyr/Geralt. This is because I wanted to write that pairing as the outcome of a natural progression of the relationship, not a "quick" result. You could call it slow-burn. Very slow. Especially the first 3 stories will be gen, and centred on politics. Just not to rouse the wrong expectations.  
> I currently don't have a beta reader. Volunteers welcome!

Few names in the Continent's history, it would be written in the chronicles of sages North and South, arouse as much terror and veneration as that of Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd - the White Flame Dancing on the Graves of his Enemies. Ascending to the throne as Emperor of Nilfgaard, Lord of Metinna, Ebbing and Gemmera, Sovereign of Nazair and Vicovaro, he was ruler of half the known world before he became the conqueror of the other half. Three wars he fought to subdue the Northern Kingdoms, and twice were his armies devastated, on the slopes of Sodden and in the valley of Brenna. But relentlessly, he drove the forces of the Empire ahead. When in the third onslaught the river Jaruga was crossed, Rivia, Lyria, and Temeria broke first and the Golden Sun of Nilfgaard rose triumphantly over Vizima. One land after another, from Verden to Aedirn, surrendered their arms and raised the black and gold, as Nilfgaard’s armies marched on still to the banks of the Pontar, where they halted. With the frost of winter, doubt over further victories crept into the hearts of those wary of war, and whispers of treason were exchanged in darkened chambers behind closed doors. But when the summer heat had parched the river dry, the armies crossed the Pontar and invaded the weakened Redania and Kaedwen, whose mad king Radovid had been slaughtered by Northern rebels. The hierarch of the Eternal Fire in Novigrad knelt before the Golden Sun. When Kovir hailed the new Emperor of North and South, the last few rebel groups dropped the sword in silence. The rule and civilisation of Nilfgaard had been brought into all reaches of the continent. Only then did emperor Emhyr var Emreis return to the towers of the capital, having fulfilled his destiny, to dance for one last time on the graves of his foes.

So it is written in the Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi.

~*~

 

_Ard Skellig, 6 th Velen in the year 1285 of Queen Cerys’ reign, several years after the end of the Great Third War:_

 

“Cii-rii!” Geralt’s voice echoed through the mists between the creaking trees. She breathed in deep the salty ocean breeze, keeping up the last tendrils of meditative concentration. Then she opened her eyes to the gulls flying into an overcast afternoon sun. She sprang up from the natural rock platform high above the whale graveyard. Turning around, she saw only a swarm of sparrows picking at the berries growing in the scrubs of the treeline. “I’m coming”, she yelled and set out back the narrow trodden path she had come in the morning. She carried her sword belt loosely over her shoulders and the steel and silver weapons gave a rhythmical clanging sound as she sauntered back to find the older witcher. Geralt had climbed the path from the druids’ caves halfway, exactly where he knew to be within earshot of her mediation spot. He was waiting for her with his hands folded over his chest and a wry smile that she knew meant he worried too much.

“Have you been meditating all morning?” he asked when she stepped out of the bushes beside him. She nodded, and he followed her down the path. In the clearings ahead she could see several druids going about their daily tasks. They stopped just outside one of the caves, where the witchers had been resting after their last contract for Cerys. A cockatrice irate after a meal of maedrome had terrorised the forests nearby. Deprived of her natural survival instinct, the drugged beast had almost turned them into goulash. Ciri still shuddered at what would have happened if she had not teleported them to Mousesack in time to stop the blood spurting out of Geralt’s thigh. The beast’s beak had caught him badly while he plunged his sword into the monster’s brain. It had taken the witcher a full day to wake up from Mousesack’s treatment, and since then he had steadfastly refused to talk to her about the incident. It had rattled them both, and being her foster-father’s daughter, she shied emotional conversations like werewolves the touch of silver: “You almost died!” She turned on him nevertheless, as her thoughts broke out of her mouth. His gaze slid down to her boots and sideways, and with a sigh he nodded very slowly.

“Witchers don’t die in their beds,” he grumbled. Without further thought, she pounced on him – carefully not to jostle the still-bandaged leg. With a deep puff, he wrapped his arms around her and held on. She pretended not to cry. Closing her eyes, she smelled the herbs of the poultice below his bandages, felt the coarse linen of his shirt, the scratch of his beard on her forehead. She never wanted to lose him.

Somebody cleared his throat around them, and Ciri discretely wiped her face while Geralt turned to the newcomer. Mousesack looked as spry as a geezer like him could be. His bushy eyebrows rose while his gaze wandered to Geralt’s leg. “We should give that wound another check over, and then”, he looked at Ciri with an unreadable expression, “we need to talk. A messenger has arrived from the mainland, and I am rather keen to be rid of her as fast as possibly”, he gave Geralt a baleful stare. They went inside the cave, where the witcher grudgingly sat down on one of the two pallets and unclothed his thigh. Ciri kept her distance, but sneaked a curious glance or two on the men’s interaction. The wound that was revealed under a tight packing of herbs and poultices had been stitched neatly, but the flesh was still tender, telling from the measured breaths Geralt took when Mousesack probed the bite.

“It’s healing well enough, but the muscle was severely damaged, as were the blood vessels. You should not even be putting weight on it yet, and certainly no fighting in the near future.” With a few deft movements of his hands, he rewrapped the bandages. “That being said, Yennefer of Vengerberg crashed into my laboratory around noon.” Mousesack announced as if it was an afterthought, “She wants to talk to Geralt, it is urgent.” He gave him a long suffering look. “Very urgent, apparently, and despite my misgivings about her and all of Nilfgaard”, he spat on the floor, but then closed his eyes wearily, “for the peace of these islands, I do suggest you go to her at once.”

Geralt winced: “Ciri, would you mind-ouch!” he levelled Mousesack with a glare, who had just jabbed his finger into the sore muscle beside the wound. “I will be a model patient and not overexert myself.” The druid folded his arms and glared in disbelief while the witcher gathered his swords and armour.

“I have left the window unlocked”, Mousesack hinted. Ciri wrapped a hand around Geralt’s, and they stepped through time and space, landing on the ledge outside of Mousesack’s laboratory window. When he pushed against the frame, Geralt heard a rustling inside and then Yennefer ripped the window open fully and hugged their daughter tight the moment Ciri had stepped through.

“Ciri”, her mother-in-heart whispered affectionately. “Mama”, the young woman whispered, and Yen squeezed her even tighter with a sob. “My beautiful girl, all grown up”, she appraised Ciri, who had passed her thirty-second birthday earlier in the year. The two had rarely seen each other in the last years, with Ciri and Geralt on the Path, one adventure following the next, many of which took them to distant realms. Yennefer herself had been busy with her duties.

“Ciri, Geralt, we need to talk”, Yen muttered eventually, not bothering to extend any greetings to him apart from a pointedly cold shoulder. “Why don’t we go for a quiet, secluded walk somewhere on this damned island? And maybe find a tavern after?”

 

~*~

_Nilfgaard of Golden Towers, in the glorious reign of Ker'zaer Emhyr var Emreis, later that same day_

 

“Ysgarthiad inis!” the sorceress exclaimed forcefully as she stepped out of the flaming portal back into her study. A splatter of mead stained her once-pristine white and black dress, whose muddy hems were dragging smears over the impeccable marble floors of Xarthisius’ golden tower. The emperor had given it to her when she became his court mage and adviser, not long after the danger of the white frost had passed for good. The tower felt like both reward and threat, given what happened to the previous occupant when he fell out of Emhyr’s favour. She told herself it was worth it. Coming to stop in front of a large standing mirror, Yennefer of Vengerberg, Sorceress Supreme of Nilfgaard, looked at her own worn and mud-splattered appearance, and breathed deeply, before she smashed an Ophiri antique settee with a magic blast. Then she rang the bell for a servant to bring a glass of Toussaint red and clean up the mess. Standing at the window, she took advantage of the elevated gaze over the imperial capital. If unlimited access to all magical archives and libraries of the continent, the entire imperial magical staff under her command, a breath-taking budget for magical research, and the satisfaction of pissing off Philippa Eilhart had not been enough to convince her to take up the position when Emhyr offered, possibly it was the view from the top floor of the tower.

There had been a time when she thought she would leave her past behind to live in a hut in the wilderness with her witcher. They had spoken of retiring, before the djinn had lifted _his_ wish to remain together forever. And then the witcher had buggered off into the wilderness alright. But instead of her, he had taken their daughter Ciri with him to hunt monsters together, depriving her – Yennefer – of a well-deserved retirement from court intrigues, imperial fancies, and the usual catastrophes that came with serving an emperor. All those pesky political problems of civilisation suckled on her like leeches. She huffed, sipped another bit of wine, and breathed deeply. For her current predicament, Geralt was not to blame any more than Ciri for wanting to live that little dream of freedom on the Path. But in the capital around her, the Merchant’s Guild was getting antsy for Emhyr to abdicate and leave the throne to the candidate of their choosing. The landed aristocracy was antsy to prevent just that. This meant that Yennefer was getting antsy for Emhyr to divulge any strategy to reassert his dominance or nominate a successor publicly. Ciri had been the obvious choice once, but to Yennefer’s surprise the emperor had accepted Geralt’s testimony of his daughter’s death. Usually so distrustful, the emperor had not even bothered to verify the matter after the Wild Hunt had been defeated. Instead, to her profound consternation, Emhyr var Emreis sat behind his desk, day in and day out, bent over papers, with a silent calm that drove her shrieking-mad. When she had dared to broach the topic, he had disapprovingly raised an eyebrow to a height that made her _twitch_ , called _her_ impertinent, and then softly informed her to never mention his daughter again or have her tongue cut out. After that conversation, if two lines of exchange could be called conversation, she had never had the nerves to tell him the truth, no matter how the words screamed in her throat. But recently she had dared ignore his wishes in ways far greater and she did not know, given the chance, if the emperor would thank her, throw her into the dungeon cell next to Xarthisius, or simply whip, flay, and burn her at the stake on Millenium Square. She had not only spoken her name, no; Yennefer had gone to find Geralt, because they needed his help. Of course, Ciri had come along. It had been impossible to appraise Geralt about the situation without letting her know as well: if she wanted to speak to her father one more time, now might be the last opportunity. Ciri, despite Yen’s warnings about the dangers of being seen at court, has insisted to visit Emhyr. Yen was not surprised, though she had wistfully hoped Ciri would stay far away. Geralt, for that matter, as much as he abhorred court life, could not deny his daughter’s pleading eyes when he agreed to come as well.

Hence, there were preparations to be made for their arrival at the palace. Stepping onto her balcony, in that last treacherous calm before the storm, Yennefer gazed into the sunset colouring the vast city to her feet in red and golden glow. The night ahead of them all was dark and full of shadows. Her heart was anxious to see the sunrise come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ysgarthiad inis – shit island
> 
> Xarthisius: the astrologer helped the young Emhyr escape after the usurper murdered his family. He was given a tower as a present upon Emhyr’s return as emperor, only to lose it and be tossed into the dungeon for failing to locate Ciri.


	2. Clueless

_Nilfgaard of Golden Towers, 7 th Velen in the year 1285 of the glorious reign of Ker'zaer Emhyr var Emreis_

 

Reinard blinked blearily over his cup of strong tea. Reports were piling on his desk, forming paper towers at a speed he had not witnessed since the end of the second war against the North. The to-do stack was thinning out considerably, and Reinard had not slept since he had put a full tenth of the Impera Brigade on high alert two days ago. The reports of twenty-and-five captains of two-hundred men had come in, who had spent the past 48 hours coming through every corner of the Imperial Palace and palace grounds. No broom closet, garden shed, sewer, or rooftop had been left unexamined, yet not even a leaf of grass appeared out of place. No single trace of any intruder had been found, no witness account of any odd occurrence. The commander of the Impera Brigade, the emperor’s personal guards, Reinard aep Matsen, was clueless. His stomach churned, half with hunger and half with desperation. He was about to order some food, when the secret door behind the bookcase opened. Not many had the right or ability to enter his office unannounced, and thus Reinard was not surprised to see the haggard face of Vattier de Rideaux.

“What news?” the visitor asked and slumped heavily in the chair across from Reinard. A brief interchange of hopeful glances soon turned sour. “Nothing then?”

Nothing. In his sleep-deprived head, Reinard went through his last encounter with Vattier. They had met in the morning, when the master of spies informed him of various plots against the emperor, more or less leading back to the opposition within the Imperial Senate. But none of them fitted with their current predicament. This attack was frontal and daring. Infuriatingly, it was also traceless. Much as he loathed to admit it, his men and he were out of their turf here. But it seemed that Vattier’s whisperers and hidden blades equally had uncovered nothing. And perhaps _that_ worried Reinard even more. With a pinched face, he rose and got the strong lemon vodka from the cabinet to pour two glasses. They toasted, “Hael Ker'zaer!”

Their salute seemed a bit of a mockery. Reinard was about to pour a second shot, when the alarm rung and a younger officer burst through the door: “Commander, the visitors have arrived!”

~*~

Geralt did not like it one bit. Not only would there be a portal to take him and Ciri into the midst of the Nilfgaardian court, full of backstabbing, formalities, and perfumed bath water. A vengeful sorceress waited at the other end of that portal. And he knew this time round he deserved her personal ire. Another rendezvous with the cockatrice, in comparison, seemed strangely appealing – and safe. Not that Geralt had ever been lucky keeping himself out of trouble. So came it that he exclaimed “I hate portals” in vain when Ciri dragged him through time and space the next day. Gone was the predictable danger of the island wilderness when his arse hit wet grass. With a thrumming headache and a rebelling stomach, the witcher kept still for a second to assess his environment. Ciri stood strongly above his head, neutrally looking around. At least, it appeared, they had arrived without rousing the attention of a welcoming commando. Emhyr was slacking off.

The inevitable javelins pointed at his throat came a few seconds after they had teleported into the private palace gardens of Nilfgaard. The witcher slowly raised his arms, letting Ciri do the talking. She had spent enough of her education with sorceresses to bully around a whole regiment with only a downturned corner of her mouth. But as the situation was about to become interesting, orders were bellowed from an open set of doors, and the javelins dropped immediately. From there, it only took a few blinks for court procedures to fall into place. Geralt was politely asked to relinquish his swords, whereupon he was collected by the emperor’s valet to bathe, be shorn, and stuffed into fanciful black velvet and white silk. In the tub, he had cautiously started to relax and hope for a temporary reprieve, when the particular banging of the doors announced Yennefer.

She looked remarkably beautiful in a lavish outfit of black lace and silk, her hair done up into something a witcher should not be eloquent enough to describe. If she had dressed up for the occasion, he knew he was in deep shit. Certainty came with the cold flashing of her violet eyes: “Geralt.”

“Yen.” In the silence that followed he could have sworn the bath water cooled much faster than before. He got up, turned around slowly, and found a towel. Moving, he told himself for comfort, he made a harder target. When he was dressed, without the help of the servants this time, he studied her behind him in the mirror. Her arms were elegantly folded over her chest, and she had turned away to the side. Breathing deeply, he steeled himself, and approached her.

“Yen-“

“We don’t have time for a personal conversation right now, but I assure you there will be time – later.” He sighed. Fine. Inclining his head once, he observed her face carefully. There was hurt, yes, and he could not fault her for being hurt after Ciri and he had gone off without her. He had meant to write, but somehow he had not found the right words, and then it had been too late, and he had put it off further. But there was another emotion flickering beside the hurt – and anger. It was fear, and that disquieted him a fair bit. When Mousesack had told them of Yennefer’s visit to Kaer Trolde, and her insistence on seeing Geralt with haste, he had known it must be important. But the witcher had not expected anything of this significance. When Ciri had teleported them back to the druid cave that night, her face had been pale with worry as she fretted about the news: Not Yen and the other court mages, the Impera Brigade, nor the Nilfgaardian intelligence had a single clue how it had happened or who was behind it. Somebody had gotten past their defences and the Emperor of Nilfgaard had been cursed. Yen said it was bad, that there might not be much time. While busy with hushing it up to the public and opposition, each fraction of security was going wild blaming the others. Yen had strongly discouraged Ciri to come to the palace, but had accepted when their daughter suggested she would keep her identity hidden from anyone but the emperor himself. Somehow, he doubted it would be that simple. By the look Ciri had given him, she knew it too. Still, she decided to go, and he could not let her go alone. Not into this.

In the dressing chamber anterior to Emhyr’s reception room, Yen and he faced each other, and neither of them was comfortable seeing the former lover. But fate, it seemed, had yet forced them together again, Djinn or no Djinn. “When did it start?” he asked gruffly. There was a curse – he was a witcher. He might as well be professional.

“We cannot be completely sure, but the first incidents happened almost one week ago, around the autumn equinox”, Yennefer began to recount, pacing. “The emperor informed me that something was out of the ordinary three days ago in a private audience in his personal quarters. His personal valet Mererid, chamberlain Evertsen, Reinard aep Matsen, and Vattier de Rideaux were the only other attendees.”

“I know of Rideaux,” Geralt cocked his head, “and I have encountered a Renuald aep Matsen. Who is Evertsen?” He vaguely remembered the stern general from the camp near Loc Muinne during the second war, Emhyr’s iron fist in the North.

Yeniffer nodded: “Reinard is the son, the commander of the Impera Briagde, making a name for himself in his father’s footsteps. An ambitious young man. And yes, Rideaux is still in command of the intelligence. With the war over, he has turned an eye on the machinations of the Merchant’s Guild. The opposition is fierce. It is an open secret they want Morvran Voorhis on the throne, to rule the Empire in the interest of the merchants. Winning the war brought Emhyr some time, but”, she glanced at Geralt in a meaningful way.

“Time is running up. So somebody decided to speed things up?” he guessed.

“Maybe”, she bit her lip.

“But-?” She knew something more that she had not yet divulged to him.

She twisted on her boots, and walked a few steps. Then she shrugged: “Things don’t add up. And we simply do not know enough yet. As for Peter Evertsen, he is formally the imperial chamberlain, and effectively Emhyr’s right hand, and … a personal favourite, shall we say?” He understood the wink. The gilded doors opened behind her and the chamberlain bade them follow. “Now behave”, she whispered and briskly traversed the doorway.

“Where is Ciri?” he inquired, and followed down the hallway into an ostentatious parlour. Foltest’s old study in Vizima, where Emhyr had received him the last time, was a sty in comparison. The room housed a large cedar wood desk, several comfortable seats, a map table, a massive fireplace, and various drawers and shelves. It was empty of people, apart from six heavily armed guards flanking another set of doors behind the desk. They passed those, down a well-lit corridor. At its end, the chamberlain opened yet another door, once more flanked by several guards.

Geralt’s eyes adjusted easily to the dark inside the room and found Ciri. The young witcher was still wearing her sword and travelling gear, including a hood that covered her features. She was sat on the side of a large canopied bed, draped in heavy black cloth, but devoid of the omnipresent golden tassels. Instead, fine green threads were woven into the fabric. Dimeritium, the witcher realised. Otherwise, the room appeared downright austere in comparison to the chambers they had previously crossed. Only a single candle was burning on the nightstand. Walking further inside, Geralt’s gaze followed Ciri’s hand, which was clasped loosely around a man’s larger hand, bearing a heavy golden signet ring, attached to a tanned, lightly haired arm. A white nightshirt was rolled up to the elbow, resting on a thick black duvet. Emhyr was sitting up, supported by a large stack of pillows. From what Geralt could see, the proud ruler was barely conscious enough to talk to his daughter.

In the shadows of the room, a respectful distance away from the bed, two more men stood in silence. Geralt did not recognise either of them, but by the uniform of the first and the unassuming garments of the second, he assumed the presence of Matsen and Rideaux. Yennefer joined them in their silent vigil, and a few hushed words were exchanged. His enhanced hearing picked up their exchange nevertheless. Apparently the heads of security had been informed about their arrival in the garden. Also, no traces of the perpetrator had been found. Turning away from the whispered bickering, Geralt redirected his attention to the Emperor, and in this moment Emhyr looked up to him. Unconcealed exhaustion marred the man’s stony expression, and Geralt thought he almost saw despair. He quickly averted his eyes.

“Your Majesty”, he bungled up a bow. Emhyr snorted weakly: “Now you bow to me, witcher?”

“So can anybody finally tell me what the bloody hell is going on?” Ciri asked loudly. Geralt did not miss the piercing look Emhyr gave to Yennefer. The sorceress’ face appeared almost petulant in response. A tense silence stretched out.

“Leave us”, Emhyr rasped, pointedly holding onto his daughter’s hand. Everybody stepped out respectfully. Without exchanging a single word, they all waited in the awkward silence of Emhyr’s parlour. When Ciri emerged half an hour later, her eyes were puffy under the hood. Yen rushed to hug her. Looking over her mother’s shoulder, Ciri met his eyes helplessly. Geralt’s heart throbbed at the sight of her tears.

“He wants to talk to you”, she said weakly, and he went. What else could he do?

The bedchamber had not changed, but for the candle that had burned down further into a stump. Its flame had started to flicker. “Witcher”, Emhyr sighed. Geralt, with some hesitation, stepped closer. Standing awkwardly at his bedside, the witcher stared down at the emperor’s hands. He cleared his throat, uncomfortably. “I lied,” he admitted. When I told you your daughter was dead, he thought. He could not give voice to an apology.

The dark hawk eyes, which usually shredded a man’s self-confidence with ease, were only weakly piercing through the mists of fatigue, but Geralt could see the mockery in them. The emperor’s lips curled vaguely. So Emhyr had known, and chosen to pretend acceptance. The candle flickered. Emhyr’s smile faded: “If they ever find out she is alive, they will hunt her to the end of this world.” His eyelids dropped. “Promise me you will do everything in your power to protect her!” With Emhyr, even a last request sounded like an order. Unable to deny the man his last wish, Geralt nodded mutely. The candle flickered out.

“Everything”, he whispered into the darkness.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hael Ker'zaer – Long life the emperor!


	3. Binding Events, part 1

_Nilfgaard of Golden Towers, 7 th Velen in the year 1285 of the glorious mess around Ker'zaer Emhyr var Emreis_

 “One more?” Reinard asked the master of intelligence, but Vattier just made a passing gesture. Pouring himself another cup of tea, Reinard leaned back in his chair: “What do I not know – that I should know – about what just happened?” The two of them had retired from their posts, handing things over to the night shift. There was nothing they could do anymore that evening, and neither had slept for days. Still restless after the evening’s events, Reinard had invited Vattier for a nightcap and private conversation.

The master spy gave him a cynical grin, raised his eyebrows high into his wrinkled brow, and shook his head reprehensively. Then he began to share a story that Reinard would not have believed, had it come from anybody else. For decades, the Imperial Intelligence had searched for a single girl: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, then Princess of Cintra, granddaughter of Queen Calanthe, child of destiny, and as was revealed later, secret daughter of the Emperor of Nilfgaard. Ithlinne prophesised her son would end an age and begin a new one. Under the mantle of the first war with the North, Emhyr had attacked Cintra in order to retrieve Cirilla from her grandmother’s care, but the girl had disappeared and Calanthe had refused to give up her location, even under torture.

“I thought Calanthe committed suicide?” Reinard interrupted, and Vattier only have him a telling glance. The body of the great queen of Cintra had never been found.

For decades the search for Cirilla went on, coordinated by Stefan Skellen and the sorcerer Vilgefortz, who was a close confidant of Emhyr var Emreis himself. Various other parties were on the look-out, among them the Council of Sorcerers that was disbanded after the Thanedd coup: Philippa Eilhard, working for the Redanian king Vizimir, had tried to reveal Emhyr’s influence on the sorcerers. The infighting between the mages that ensued ended the Council, from the ruins of which the Lodge of Sorceresses arose. Emhyr’s intelligence had eventually located Cirilla at Stygga Castle. Vattier himself had uncovered the treason of the sorcerer Vilgefortz, who had been experimenting on girls in the attempt to harness Cirilla’s foretold powers. At the height of the second war, Emhyr had ridden to Stygga Castle in person, escorted by the full 5000 soldiers of the Impera Brigade, intent to claim Cirilla. It was then that the incomprehensible had happened: Emhyr had received the girl in his tent, when a messenger from Brenna arrived with the news of imminent defeat. Shortly after, Emhyr had broken camp and returned south to negotiate the peace of Cintra and marry Cirilla, rightful heir to Cintra, as part of the peace agreements.

Reinard stared at Vattier, who looked like the cat that ate the canary. The kept like that for a few seconds, until Reinard threw up his hands: “Fine, I was aware of most of this. Will you tell me the point already?”

Vattier grinned triumphant, but then grew serious: “This is classified information”, he warned, “but under the circumstances I am authorised to tell you. It might be important now. That girl, the one the Emperor found at Stygga – I was there, I saw her. That was not the girl that became the Empress of Nilfgaard. You understand? They gave us hundreds of hints about the Lioncub of Cintra back then, dozens of false Cirillas. Some of them were not even bad, trained, made believe they were the lost princess. The one Emhyr married to seal the peace treaty…” Vattier suggested with a raised eyebrow.

“A fake, yes.” Rainard added, “And then he found out and she disappeared.”

“No, he always knew”, Vattier waved it off, “No idea why he decided to get rid of his Empress. When she left the court, he was already plotting the third war, so maybe she had outlived her usefulness?”

Reinard should not have been surprised. The Emperor had always placed politics before all with a ruthlessness that did not stop before anyone, not even his family. He ruled, without compromise, like a man possessed. Not that Reinard would ever say this aloud.

“The woman who turned up last night, out of nowhere, though” Vattier brought him back from his thoughts, “I’d bet a fortune that _is_ her. And she brought the witcher along, the same who was with her at Stygga castle, and the sorceress – the very same Yennefer of Vengerberg!”

“I’ve seen her before – the woman who arrived tonight, I mean”, Reinard added, and from the blank, and then hungry face of Vattier, he suddenly realised that he knew something the master spy did not. He took mercy on him. “She visited him once, together with the witcher, in Vizima, during the third war. And she was there, when the fleet sailed to Skellige and the magical ice happened.” He still remembered the utter terror of the men, when the blizzard had broken the ships and frozen the blood of the living.

“The White Frost. Fascinating. I heard the tales, but I was stuck in Nilfgaard keeping an eye on the opposition. My sources suggested, however, that she died in battle that day. When Emhyr returned and closed the investigation, with that grieving sorceress in tow, I assumed-damned son of a hag! A'baeth me aep arse, ysgarthiad!” Vattier cursed, and Reinard was reminded of the tales of the famous parlance of the Temerian chief of intelligence.

 “So the heiress of the imperial throne just dropped out of the sky, when the Emperor may be, well…”

“-dying from an unknown curse. Just a little bit suspicious, yes”, Vattier finished the sentence for him, and the cheer vanished immediately.

“Dammit”, Reinard aep Matsen repeated, and took a long swallow of his tea. Life as an imperial guard never got boring.

~*~

Spontaneous collapses, Yen had said, never deadly, but frightening, sometimes even embarrassing, and continuously getting worse. And neither a perpetrator nor a weapon in sight. Geralt had seen worse curses before, but gazing at the gritted face of the Emperor, he felt an unexpectedly deep empathy. When the Emperor had succumbed to sleep at the end of their brief meeting, Geralt had returned to the office, where propositions for action were being argued back and forth. Matsen, Rideaux, and Yennefer had agreed to keep everything under wraps for the time being, announcing instead an attempt at regicide to explain Emhyr’s absence from court life. Staying out of the discussion, but willing to help, Geralt had insisted to stay and observe the curse, which the valet had admitted grudgingly. Ciri had wanted to stay as well, but Yen had convinced her to leave, insisting on a long-overdue personal chat.

Back in Emhyr’s bedchamber, the valet had taken four broad leather cuffs from a chest of drawers and secured Emhyr’s limbs to the bedposts. Each cuff was locked with a little key. “He injured himself gravely the other night. The worst attacks come in his majesty’s sleep”, the valet said tentatively in explanation, face red under the powder, “I’m under his orders now to prevent what I can.”

“I see.” Geralt nodded, understanding only as the first twitches began. It did not take long for Emhyr to throw himself against the leather ties. Sweat ran down his brow, mouth moving ceaselessly. Geralt tried to calm him with axii, but it did not seem to have any effect – strangely enough, because dimeritium did not interfere with witcher signs, only with the magic sorcerers used. Contemplating the matter, the witcher could not ignore that his thigh still stung when he put weight on the leg. Seating himself on a nearby chair, he observed the Emperor a little longer. Eventually though, he drowsed off.

Geralt came back to when he heard a loud snap, followed by howl. Immediately alert, and berating himself for falling asleep, he jumped up and scanned the room. Nothing moved, apart from Emhyr himself, whose back was arched against the bonds, turned over to his right side. Geralt could now locate the source of the sound: Emhyr’s left arm was bent at an odd angle, clearly dislocated at the shoulder. Cursing under his breath, the witcher crouched down by the Emperor, and tried axii again, this time with more force. Emhyr slumped, but continued to whisper under his breath. His enhanced hearing let Geralt pierce together some of his words.

“No … no please, please – sire, please. No! Let me go, I just … go home, my family, please…”

And again, the Emperor began to fight his bonds for real. Making a snap decision, Geralt jumped up in search for something sharp, something to release the cuffs. But his weapons were still with the guards, and nothing suitable was lying around. He threw open the set of doors, finding the guard outside and yelling for Mererid. The valet appeared immediately.

“I need the keys!” Geralt urged him, “Immediately!” For once, the valet did not waste time on protocol. He surrendered the little key immediately. Geralt rushed back to Emhyr, with Mererid on his heels. The face of the Emperor was buried in a pillow that muffled his sobs. Curled even further onto his right, the left arm was stretched at a dangerous angle. The witcher acted at once, jamming the little key into the cuff on the left wrist. The lock gave with a soft click, and Geralt carefully removed the arm, mindful of the restless body attached to it. “Release his feet”, he instructed the terrified valet, passing over the key. Then the witcher wrestled Emhyr onto his back, and set the dislocated shoulder with a few deft pulls. Emhyr screamed, then went limp with another strong axii. Looking around, Geralt ripped a pillow from its case, and tore the case along the seams. Laying half down on the bed, he tugged the length of fabric around the emperor’s chest. Wrapping his arms around Emhyr’s body from behind, he bound the injured arm in place in front of the emperor’s chest just in time for axii to lose its power. Holding the tense body to his chest as gently as he could, the witcher wished for a good old nekker nest to destroy instead. Mererid had made himself useful and retrieved another of Emhyr’s servants. The man, clad only in his nightwear and a hastily fastened robe, looked at Geralt angrily, but calmed after a few quiet words with the valet, and took the witcher’s place. Geralt did not envy whoever Emhyr would find waking up in that position. With a curt nod to Mererid, he departed. He needed to find Yen.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A'baeth me aep arse, ysgarthiad! – literally: kiss me on the arse, shit!


	4. Binding Events, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos!

_Nilfgaard of Golden Towers, 8 th Velen in the year 1285 of the glorious reign of Ker'zaer Emhyr var Emreis_

 

The Sorceress Supreme had retired to her tower for the night, the guards in the corridor informed him. A servant showed him to a guest room down a few doors, and given the opportunity, Geralt hit the bed. In the morning he went to search Ciri, but was unable to find her. He reckoned she had gone with Yen. Mererid informed him that the Emperor had awoken earlier, but was currently indisposed. When Geralt told him he needed to speak to Yennefer, the valet had provided a guide and horses, as well as a fresh set of pompous clothing that chafed at the neck and under the arms. At least, Geralt’s blades were returned to him.

The ride into the city took them past the Temple of the Great Sun, and across the bridge that connected the steep plateau on the south bank of the river Alba with the city on the plains of the north bank. Magnificent boulevards linked the bridge to the palace and temple with other important landmarks. Nilfgaard of the Golden Towers, aptly named, boasted eight golden-roofed towers symmetrically located along the innermost city wall. As the guide informed Geralt, each tower was dedicated to a holiday of the elven calendar the kingdom had adopted eons ago. Once the towers had been part of the battlements, but the city had long sprawled into the country-side. A larger ring of defence had been built almost two centuries ago, and the towers of the inner walls had been adapted to new purposes. The bridge towards the palace and temple was reached through a double-gated tunnel at the base of Midäete, the summer tower. At the other end of the main boulevard, Midinvaerne arched over the northern gate, and housed the famous military academy. From where they stood the sun rose behind the towers of Belleteyn, Birke, and Imbaelk; to the west it shone on Lammas, Velen, and Saovine. Birke housed the High Tribunal, Velen the chambers of the Imperial Senate. The lesser towers were occupied by various functions of the state, which included the local representation of the magical academy, where they were headed; Imbaelk, once known as Xarthisius’s tower, had thus become the domicile of the Sorceress Supreme, Emhyr’s court mage, Yennefer von Vengerberg.

The ride through the centre, crossing Millennium Square, did not take them longer than half an hour, but Geralt felt sweaty nonetheless in the southern climate. Why Nilfgaardians of all people favoured black dress was beyond him. As they finally reached Imbaelk, he left the horse with his guide, and entered through the open gates into a long courtyard. Tall stone buildings in the local style lined two sides, the tower on the back side of the yard rising well above the other buildings. Lemon trees gave additional shade to the scholars sitting on low benches.

“I’m looking for Yennefer of Vengerberg”, he addressed a young woman standing in a chatting group near the tower entrance. She looked at him with widening eyes, and under the giggles of her friends, pointed towards the doors: “Top floors.” Damn Dandelion’s ballads for spreading their story through the whole continent! It seemed even after ten years after their separation, those had not been forgotten. He rolled his eyes inwardly, and climbed the stairwell. There were a lot of stairs, but at least it was cool inside the stone building. Reaching the end of the staircase eventually, he knocked on a heavy wooden door. When nobody opened, he pounded the wood again: “YEN?” The doors flew open, almost hitting his face. ‘I would definitely prefer another rendezvous with the cockatrice’, Geralt thought to himself, and stepped into the chambers of the Sorceress Supreme. She stood behind a massive desk, several feet away, her arm still outstretched in the motion that had opened the door.

“Come in, Geralt”, she said coolly, gesturing towards a set of armchairs by the balcony. He briefly admired the view, and then sat down to help himself to some fruit that was offered in a bowl. Yennefer had finished whatever she was working on, and took a seat across from him. She did not look like she had slept much, and still wore the same dress.

“Shall we get started with business?” she suggested to his relief. He recounted his observations of the last night to her. She listened in concentration, furrowing her brow now and then. When he was done, she nodded thoughtfully: “So he is unable to wake up, even from intense pain, once the episode starts. That is an important clue to narrow down the list of possible spells.”

“Do you have any idea yet what the cause may be?” he asked.

“Well”, she tapped her chin, “the nature of the curse is – cruel, in a rather personal way. The other day his majesty was found almost catatonic, refusing to speak. Earlier the week he almost bled to death and required magical healing. This allows the question whether we are dealing with a political manoeuvre only, or if a more personal motive must be considered.”

“You mean revenge?”

“Yes. And magic of this strength, with multiple effects, a masterpiece itself, does always require some kind of personal connection. In many cases a sample of the victim in fact, something like blood or hairs.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, without doubt. Spells affecting the mind are either cast from close range, and would need to be renewed frequently-“

“- which is impossible, given the amount of dimeritium in place -”, he interrupted.

“Exactly, which only leaves the alternative: a regularly imbibed substance or a personal anchor. We can rule out the first, Emhyr is paranoid about his food, and Mererid even more so since the symptoms started.” She got up to fetch something.

“So the second option, the anchor, is most likely,” Geralt concluded.

“Yes”, Yen said while rummaging through a drawer in her desk, “but I have already asked Mererid, and there are procedures in place to minimise the risk.” She started to imitate the valet’s nasal voice: “His majesty’s hair is combed _rigorously_ each morning, and kept in place with pomade. _All_ lost hair is burnt immediately. Every evening his majesty’s body is scrubbed to remove all dead skin. Used clothes or linens that touch the skin are burnt or washed _immediately_ by trusted staff. And _nobody_ has access to the private royal chambers, except those who underwent _strict_ investigation.”

He raised his eyebrows: “Strict investigation? Like us last night?”

She smiled a little: “You were expected, and apart from that the protocol does not appear to affect either you or Ciri. There are not many people who get away without a proper bow, you know.”

He shrugged: “I’m _impertinent_ , and apart from that I remember an even pricklier version of him.” Though, come to think of it, any memory Geralt had of Duny, in human or bestial form, had been more agreeable than the ruler Emhyr had become.

“To come back to matters at hand, though” she reminded him, “procuring Emhyr’s genetic material cannot be easy, and not many people could have that kind of access to him. I can trace the spell, but I need at least three hairs for that, or any other bit of him.” She gave him a telling look. Their spontaneous levity, and its abrupt end, made him suddenly feel her loss, if not as a lover, then at least as a friend. Like an echo of their good times…

“So you want me to steal a magically useful sample of the Emperor?” He raised his eyebrow with feigned disbelief. “Would you enjoy to see me hang, or will I they simply throw my tortured body into the river?”

“You are better than to get caught, not with the access you will have. And trust me, I would not ask if it wasn’t necessary”, she frowned at him. He played along for now.

“Next question, then: Who gets into touching range of Emhyr?” Geralt inquired.

“I don’t know, it’s a question for Rideaux or Matsen. So are you taking this contract?” she placed a formal document in front of him. It bore the imperial seal and Emhyr’s signature.

“When’d you get this?” he asked, perusing the document.

“This morning, just in time”, she replied innocently. So he had crossed the city in the damn heat while she was having an audience with the _indisposed_ Emperor. Great. He raised his gaze at her from where he was leaning forward. Raising her eyebrows right back at him, she did not even bother to pretend she didn’t know that he had wanted to talk to her. Fine.

“I’ll need to talk to Ciri, see what she wants”, he delayed his decision.

Yennefer’s gaze turned cold: “Geralt – she already decided when she came to Nilfgaard last night and insisted to return to the palace to speak to Emhyr earlier. Don’t you know what will happen the moment anybody sees her alive?” Upon his defiant gaze, she sighed: “They will know Emhyr still has an heiress”, her voice was a razorblade, “and in the cesspool of court gossip, discovery is only a matter of time. She will _never_ live in peace again, whether or not she decides to take the crown. She would be a continuous threat to any other candidate. Morvran Voorhis is a master strategist, he won’t keep his flank open, Geralt. He’s been waiting for that throne for years, he won’t stand by idly and let her take it,” she said, looking straight at him.

And despite all this, Yen had allowed that Ciri would come, when Emhyr himself had let his daughter go. Geralt breathed deeply, counted to ten, and breathed out forcefully. While he had not seen it with the same clarity before, he had reckoned that going to Nilfgaard was a great mistake. Yet Ciri had decided she would stay.

“I’m assuming Ciri is aware of this? Have you talked to her?” he asked, and she nodded: “On Ard Skelling, and last night. She’s”, Yen huffed: “tougher than we think”, they said together and shared a pained smile. It hurt to see Yen, and he thought it would for a while. But they needed to work together, for Ciri.

“Is there anything else we need to discuss right now?” he asked, and she shook her head: “No, but we need to figure out who could have gotten close enough to Emhyr to steal something of him. Ask Matsen, he should be at the palace. And Vattier can’t be far. Matsen will know where to find him – and Geralt? Don’t trust anybody in there, and if you find something, run it by me first?”

“I will”, he promised. When he left, his signature was drying on the contract.

~*~

_EARLIER THAT DAY:_

She was numb, and yet full of awareness for the spaces around her. The morning light was golden, and blue, and rose, as it flittered through the stained glass windows of the chambers that had been assigned to her. Everything seemed to glow in pastels, painting a gentleness over the stark colours of black and gold. It was a beautiful set of rooms, yet strangely empty in the way that guest rooms always lack personal touches. She had not truly slept that night, her head full of conflicting thoughts. Any path she considered taking ran into dead ends, but for the one. And that one was scaring her. She felt like her mind was still coming to terms with what her heart already knew was right. She did not bother with shoes as she slipped on a robe provided to her and slipped out of the room. The guards face remained passive as she inquired after the Emperor’s whereabouts, though his ears coloured slightly. She closed the door again, searching for something to wear. There were no garments in the wardrobe, and the second set of witcher’s clothes she had brought seemed painfully out of place. A rap on the door and two chamber maids later, most of that problem has been solved. They came with a large trunk full of clothing. Ciri did not know whose dress she was wearing, but the blues and whites and golden flower brocades fit reasonably well. The sleeves were slightly too tight around the shoulders and upper arms, but as long as she did not fight in it the seams would hold. A mostly fitting pair of soft lace-up boots were found after she had rejected the maidenly slippers. She was ready to leave and find her father, when his valet – Mererid – collected her, bringing a hooded blue cloak of fine cloth: “If for any reason Her Highness needed to leave the personal imperial quarters, and might prefer to avoid discovery”. So the secret had already gotten out. She thanked him for his thoughtfulness. Ten guards walked in close distance to her when she made her way to Emhyr’s parlour. Her father, dressed in his usual regalia, was bent over some fancy-looking paperwork, and she waited silently by the door.

“Sit”, he offered, not looking up and she sat in the most distant seat in the room, which was a chaise lounge near the unlit fireplace. Eventually her father sealed the document, leaned back, and turned to Ciri. A strange look crossed his face, eyes going up and down over her form. Now she felt even more awkward in the dress. “Have you found some time to think about our discussion?” She could not fail to see his sunken eyes and shallow complexion. The hair at his temples had greyed since their last encounter thirteen years ago. She knew the elder blood in principle granted Emhyr the long life of all their ancestors, but the man before her, for the first time since she knew him, appeared fragile, human, and old.

She looked down at the floor in silence. “I don’t know how to be an Empress”, she said at least, “but I want to help – with the curse.” She was not sure if he deserved it, but Nenneke’s preaching had come back to her over the sleepless light. Ciri had not prayed for anything since she had left the custody of the Temple of Melitele in Ellander. Now she suddenly missed the three-shaped statues of the mother goddess. ‘Help me’, she has begged silently in the night, ‘I don’t know how to deal with him.’ In the morning, she knew the right thing to do. It was just that she was afraid to do it.

A shadow appeared over her shoulder, and she lifted her gaze. Emhyr had risen from his chair, and slowly walked over to sit down heavily next to her. Cautiously, he clasped her hand. Looking at him from the side, she saw his head bent and dark eyes oddly soft as he looked at their hands.

“You owe me nothing, Cirilla, and I am left owing much to you, for all my deeds as Emperor that ever put you in peril, but even more so for my failure to be your father”, he said in the business-like tone that she associated with him. He paused: “Nevertheless, I am grateful you have come now. But if you do not desire to be my heir, you need to leave immediately and stay dead to the world. Only my closest advisors are aware of this, but I have compiled the paperwork that will name General Voorhis my successor, and he has been brought into a position where most of the nobility will follow him, so that the majority of the Senate should welcome his appointment upon my imminent abdication.” She nodded impatiently: “Yes, but the curse-“

“No, Cirilla, the curse is immaterial to this”, her father turned and to her surprise grasped both her hands in his, fixing her with a deadly serious face: “Your blood gives you a claim on the throne the nobles, especially the old families, cannot deny, for their own legitimacy depends on upholding the traditions of hereditary rule and property. That is why they supported me. You are not only a danger to General Voorhis accession to the throne, but a danger to the entire empire’s political stability. Voorhis publicly stands for a new empire, regulated by a charter of rights that will revolutionise the lives of all people. Any dissenters and political enemies of Morvran Voorhis – and there are many in fear of losing power under such a constitution – will crowd behind your name. The division will weaken Nilfgaard, a weakness the dethroned northern royalty can and will exploit. Not even the alliances General Voorhis has been forging would keep the continent together.”

She gasped with the full implications, which to be honest with herself she had not seen in entirety. Looking at her father with horror she realised: “The pacification process would have been in vain, everything would start again? More war, just because of - me”, she breathed with horror.

He winced, opened his mouth, and closed it again. Then he nodded softly: “The north would fall back into the savagery and chaos where it came from. If you have no desire to lead it to something better yourself, you must leave at once. I cannot wait any longer”, he said tersely and made to rise. His knees shook like those of an old man, and he moved slowly. She looked at his broad shoulders, the strong back that was bent with exhaustion. By his desk, he turned once more, looking at her with an odd expression and opening his mouth to speak. Then suddenly, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he collapsed.

“Help!” she yelled, jumping up and crouching beside him. The guard broke through the doors immediately, with Mererid on their heels. She squeezed her father’s hand, calling his name, but he did not respond.

~*~

_The Vegelbud Estate, Redania, in the year 1285 of the Nilfgaardian attempt to pacify the Northern Kingdoms_

Morvran Voorhis was not by nature a patient man, but wartime strategy had taught him the self-restraint to await his chances. While the news of attempted regicide spread, the letter of his personal informant was crumbled in his clenching fist. Gnashing his teeth, he chucked the ball of paper into the flames, resting his empty hand on the mantle of the fireplace.

That woman was trouble, he had suspected from the moment he had laid eyes on her in Vizima. Now he also had the sorceress to deal with, her pet witcher sniffing around. Rideaux had let the dogs loose, and the Impera Brigade had the whole court under lockdown. Emhyr was holed up, and all Senate meetings suspended until further notice. Months of hard negotiations endangered, Morvran stomped into the hallway of the Vegelbud estate. “Ready my horse”, he yelled to the servants, and proceeded to change into travelling gear. He quickly went to say his passionate good-byes to Ingrid. Soon after, he and his entourage were galloping down the main road towards Oxenfurt to meet his allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will come frequently!


	5. Dowsing the Flame

_Nilfgaard of Golden Towers, 8 th Velen in the year 1285 of the glorious reign of Ker'zaer Emhyr var Emreis_

On the way back from Imbaelk tower, Geralt left his horse with the guide and took a detour through the city. He visited the roofed market, where he stumbled upon a notice board. His written Nilfgaardian was passable enough to understand most of the notices. It seemed the people in the south were as silly as in the north when it came to requests. Yet they differed in that nobody believed in monsters and consequently there was no demand for his trade. Apart from that, he reminded himself he already had a contract. At one of the many colourful stalls, he ate some olives and freshly baked bread. He purchased some durable rations for the road, then slowly walked back through the side alleys towards the palace. The guards, apparently well informed, let him in without so much as a question.

Nearing the Emperor’s personal quarters, he encountered a small throng of servants carrying boxes. Going by the shape, weight, and excited chitchat, they contained clothes. When a red heap of floral silks was carried past, Geralt supressed a grin about his daughter’s predictable temper tantrum, but figured he would let Mererid deal with it. As expected, he was found by the valet and, upon request, escorted to the Impera Brigade’s officer’s mess. The commander took his supper there sharing a table with his inferior officers. When Geralt commented upon the fact, Reinard aep Matsen informed him shared meals strengthened a sense of loyalty and belonging. Once the commander had finished his food they retreated to the privacy of his study.

Reinard aep Matsen was a man no older than forty summers, as far as Geralt could tell. He had an open face, warm but alert eyes, and the low voice of someone who radiates authority so naturally that he never needs to raise it. He gestured for Geralt to sit, and mustered him thoughtfully.

“Is this room private?” the witcher asked.

“We may speak openly here. I have been informed you accepted the contract”, Matsen offered.

“In that case, Commander, I request your help in breaking the Emperor’s curse”, Geralt began, “I will need a list of anybody who could have come close to the Emperor, recently, but also as far back into the past as possible.”

Matsen frowned. He sucked on his lips, then slipped a round little box from his pocket. “Vattier, can you spare a moment? You will want to be involved here.” A scratchy confirmation could be heard from the Xenovox. Matsen put the device in the middle of the desk, then leant forward on his elbows, resting his chin on his clasped hands: “How close are we talking, master witcher?”

“Physical touch. Enough to steal hair, or any other bodily substance. A component for the curse”, Geralt explained. A noncommittal sound could be heard from the xenovox. “Any recent visitors, somebody he danced, or had more personal encounters with?”

“The Emperor does not _dance_ ”, Matsen huffed, “What do you think, Vattier?”

 “The simple answer, recently, witcher, is no one, apart from his valet and the chamberlain. There is of course our esteemed sorceress, his personal guards, me myself, and other close advisors, who frequent his wider personal space. Less recently”, Vattier paused, “that is much harder to tell.”

“Somebody who might carry a personal grudge?” Geralt tried.

“The Emperor has many enemies, surely we must not explain that”, Matsen threw in, but Geralt shook his head: “A curse of this kind often requires hatred.” he explained patiently, “An impersonal struggle over the crown or political power is unlikely to be enough in such a case.”

“There are a few more delicate enmities in the Emperor’s history, but he does not make a habit of keeping these individuals alive” Rideaux said through the xenovox. “I will have to investigate this more closely. Is there anything else, Geralt of Rivia? Otherwise I have a pile of work to do.”

“Not right now, but I will keep in touch. My thanks, Rideaux.” The witcher replied, and Matsen switched off the device.

“He is right. Anybody I can think of is dead”, Matsen allowed, “or at least is said to be.” And with that, he gave Geralt a strange look. Keeping a passive face, the witcher cleared his throat. “I would”, Matsen added, “of course inform you, should this not be the case.”

“That would help”, Geralt said gruffly and made to stand, “I’ll take my leave now, and thank you for your time.”

“It is my duty”, Matsen replied steadily, and inclined his head in farewell.

Geralt nodded back and made his way out: “Then I’ll better go do mine.”

~*~

The witcher returned to his assigned quarters to store most of his gear, and the dried fruit and meats he had purchased on his tour through the city. Stowing away his purchases, he realised with dread that his wardrobe had been filled with garments. The floral red silks turned out to be a kimono of sorts. With the fingertips, he carefully lifted one folded shirt, and was relieved to find it plain white. The material was very smooth and heavy, but plain linen nonetheless. He purposefully missed some of the more flamboyant pieces of fashion hanging around, and found a pair of black woollen trousers, a fine but plain leather belt, and some remarkably soft and well-fitting boots. Undergarments were available in abundance.

With an afterthought, he stuck his nose under his armpit, sniffed, and divested himself of his armour. In the hallway he asked a servant to draw him a bath. Instead, and to his secret pleasure, the boy introduced him to the hot baths located behind the private gardens. They were accessible through a roofed colonnade that ran alongside the palace wall. The baths were empty, as he casually remarked. The boy looked at him curiously, and then reminded the witcher that the Emperor had no living relatives. Only then did Geralt realise that Ciri’s and his rooms were located in the part of the palace usually reserved for the royal family.

In the ‘apodyterium’, the changing room, towels and soaps, along with some oils and scents were provided in a practical wooden bucket to carry, and there were nooks with shelves and benches where he could leave his spare clothing. It took a moment to convince the servant that Geralt was fine doing these tasks by himself. The dirty garments were sent to the laundry right away. In a larger alcove, a shallow tiled bathtub was let into the floor. The boy rummaged with a dial in the wall, and the water pipes running along the ceiling shifted to rain down hot water. As the boy informed him politely, one washed the body of everyday dirt first, before entering the main baths through a set of lattice doors.

Inside, the dim light and sandstone reminded him of Djikstra’s bathhouse, but Emhyr’s private baths were somewhat smaller. The centre of the room was made up by a long rectangular pool, large and deep enough to swim in. A stained glass skylight illuminated this area – the frigidarium – more than the rooms that flanked it: the caldarium and tepidarium, providing a hot and a warm pool, respectively. Those pools were shallow, made to sit in. Reclining seats and little tables were scattered around. Doors set into the back wall led to a steam and dry hot room. Peeking inside the latter, Geralt eyed a heated stone platform with interest. Light snacks and cool drinks were offered on small tables near the exit. Herbal scents perfumed the air, and Geralt recognised rosemary, spruce, and celandine. He picked the hot pool, and sat down to soak. Reclining in the water, he scrutinised the intricate pipe system that connected the different basins. He began to understand why some areas were set higher than others. Somewhere on the roof, perhaps in an adjacent building, there needed to be a big hot water tank, from which all pools were filled, the water running with the gravity, cooling down in the process. The engineering invested in this luxury bath was simply in theory, but quite remarkable in effect. When he got slightly drowsy, Geralt took a dive in the cold pool, then returned to the changing rooms to dress in his clean outfit. The shirt was pleasantly wide in the shoulders. Thinking to appease the valet, he even suffered a shave and some of the calendula scented oil to smoothen his skin.

Mererid acknowledged his return with a brisk nod, which Geralt counted as a step forward in their relation. “Any news of Emhyr?” the witcher asked without thinking, and the casual naming earned him a hard glare. So much for progress.

“I have observed _His Majesty’s_ wellbeing closely”, the valet began and reported in detail how the Emperor had slept in the last days.

Geralt listened closely, trying to identify a pattern. “Let me summarise, then”, he considered Mererid’s words:  “ _His Majesty_ usually slept seven hours each night, rising with the first daylight. In the previous week, since the equinox, he has suffered from episodes, which bring him into a trance where he will act as the nightmare compels him to. In addition, His Majesty has become exhausted, trying to remain awake. He did not sleep for three days until yesterday evening – and today His Majesty collapsed at his desk shortly before the third hour after noon.”

“Quite so”, the chamberlain confirmed, “and once His Majesty is asleep-”

“-it is impossible to rouse him.” Geralt finished the sentence. This curse was more complex than most of what he had seen so far. In addition, they knew nothing about the words used to cast it, or about the conditions for breaking it. He would need to inform Yennefer as quickly as possible. On that thought, he turned to Mererid: “Do you have a secure way for me to communicate with Yennefer, and possibly also with Rideaux and Matsen?”

The chamberlain looked at him with mild distain: “I do in fact have ways. Would sire like me to relay a message?”

Geralt considered: “Can you tell Yen what you just told me? About the effects and pattern the curse takes? She might be able to figure out what kind of spell it actually is.”

“Certainly, sire” Mererid confirmed. “What is sire planning for this night? The sun will set in about half an hour”, the valet inquired tacitly.

“I shall observe again, like last night. But can we start without the restraints this time?” It seemed to do more harm than good, and Emhyr’s shoulder would need time to heal without putting further strain on it. Mererid led him back into the Emperor’s bedchamber, where the White Flame Dancing on the Graves of his Foes was curled up in his blankets, peacefully asleep. The arm was secured in a sling, the edges of which were visible below the collar of a silk nightshirt. His face was stern even in sleep, but softer than Geralt had seen before. The candle on the nightstand had been replaced.

Mererid cleared his throat: “If sire will not require anything else, I would retire for the night. The chamberlain, Evertsen, will be available all night, if additional help his required and to supervise sire’s work. I will return for His Majesty to break his fast at sunrise.”

The witcher waved him off, before he reconsidered: “Wait, one more thing. I will need an audience with His Majesty tomorrow morning, to discuss some of my … observations. Is that possible?”

Mererid paused and turned his head: “If His Majesty is so inclined, I shall have a second breakfast at hand. Has sire any particular desires?”

Geralt frowned, then realised it was about the food. “No, anything will do”, he replied, and the valet took his leave. Grateful to be alone for the time being – ignoring the sleeping Emperor – he sat down in a chair to gaze at the latter. The light in the room was dimming quickly, and Geralt could not help but wonder what would occur that night. Soon enough, he would find out.

~*~

Peter Evertsen was a middle-aged man, tall, muscular without being bulky, and with neatly-cut short dark hair. Geralt immediately recognised him as the man who Mererid had brought to hold the Emperor the previous night. His garb was noticeably finer than that of Mererid, and Geralt wondered if the Emperor’s chamberlain was a man of some importance, unlike in the north, where a chamberlain managed the personal household for his lord. After introductions had been made, Evertsen had two comfortable chairs brought into the imperial bedchamber. A luxurious dinner was served meanwhile in the ‘small’ dining room down the corridor that could have easily accommodated twenty people. They were seated across from each other at the lower end of the table, going by the particularly high-backed chair at the other end. Evertsen did not seem to expect much small-talk, and so they ate in silence. Outside, the sun was almost down, and they wrapped up and returned to Emhyr’s side.

“If the pattern of the last nights holds, His Majesty will experience nightmares between sunset and sunrise”, Evertsen said neutrally, “which, unless he is restrained forcefully, will result in trance and sleepwalking. How”, he politely addressed Geralt, “does the witcher suggest we proceed?” The politeness did not entirely cover the challenge in Evertsen’s request.

“We wait, observe. Let him do whatever he is compelled to, so long as he does not injure himself. That way, we might learn something of the functioning of the curse”, Geralt offered, slouching into his armchair and stretching his legs out. Evertsen did not relax, but his posture did not harden either. This face, though, was drawn with sincere concern, that much Geralt could tell. The coming hours passed slowly, as Emhyr twitched and muttered in his blankets. From the few meaningful sentences he uttered loud enough, Geralt gathered the dreaming Emperor was preparing to retake the Nilfgaardian throne. He kept arguing about travel plans, and allies, and uttered a whole series of disparaging comments about his late mother-in-law that amused Geralt to no small extent. Midnight had passed when the Emperor became more agitated. At some point, he had struggled so much the blankets had fallen off the bed, and Evertsen rose to tuck the Emperor back in. Geralt observed how his hand lingered just a little too long on Emhyr’s shoulder.

The birds outside were quiet yet and it had started to rain, when Emhyr rolled off the side of the bed and clambered up against the wall, his feet still caught in the blankets that had tumbled over the edge with him. Both observers sprung up, and silently followed the sleeping man, who, after some incomprehensible muttering, had freed himself from his blanket and marched briskly out of the bedroom. Evertsen walked backwards before the Emperor, while Geralt followed close behind. Looking for clues, the witcher noted that Emhyr was searching for something. He kept walking around, a deep frown on his face, becoming ever more agitated. By chance, Evertsen had become trapped in the corner of the dining room, where Emhyr paced in front of him, when the Emperor touched the chamberlain by accident, and suddenly went still.

“Where did you hide her? Where is she?” Emhyr rounded on Evertsen, grasping him by the shoulders and yelling into his face. Evertsen looked surprised, yet remained silent. “Answer me, you idiot girl!” Emhyr roared, and shook him harshly. Geralt waved his hands urgently, and Evertsen narrowed his eyes, before getting the message.

“Who are you looking for?” the chamberlain asked gently, and Geralt nodded. Emhyr had gone utterly still. Then, with a large motion, he slapped the chamberlain across the face: “Do not play innocent with me, Pavetta, you know exactly who I’m looking for. Where is my daughter?”

Geralt winced as blood ran down Evertsen’s split lip, and did not fault the chamberlain for diving out of the way of the next blow, ducking out of the corner. Emhyr, surprisingly, did not run after him, but just turned to face them, unseeing eyes closed in a grimace, and covering his mouth with his hand, which was now speckled with Evertsen’s blood. Rage and shame painted a strange mix onto the Emperor’s features.

“Pavetta”, he garbled, and began to stumble back towards the door of the dining room.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asked the chamberlain, who was holding a handkerchief to his bleeding lip. The man just nodded, eyes pained, and together they kept running after Emhyr, who seemed to sway unnaturally as he bolted along the corridor. When thunder rolled the first time, Emhyr threw himself against the wall, and held onto it for his dear life. Shortly after they had reached the double doors that led into the private garden, and Emhyr pressed through them with rigour. When the rain touched him, Emhyr seemed to recoil, and sank down on the ground muttering. But the moment the next bolt of thunder rang across the skies, he shot up and ran across the grass. Whatever place the Emperor’s mind was, it seemed to shake, for Emhyr tottered about like a drunk sailor, screaming for his dead wife. His silken nightshirt was soon covered in grass and mud from where he had fallen to the ground. “Pavetta, please calm down, you need to calm down!” Emhyr yelled at the skies, over and over again, crawling over the grass.

“We need to get him out of this weather,” Evertsen grunted to Geralt. The storm was distant, lightning cracking down far over the seaside, but the wind that had come was cold. All clad in light fabrics, they were soaked through to the bone quickly, and Emhyr, in nothing but his nightshirt, was shivering visibly.

“A little longer, but yes”, Geralt said. He knew, with sudden clarity, what Emhyr was dreaming of. This could be nothing but the day Pavetta had died in the storm, when Emhyr had taken his family onto a boat trip, supposedly to visit the clans Tuirseach and an Craite on Skellige. In truth, he had planned with the sorcerer Vigefortz to teleport the ship to Nilfgaard to reclaim his throne. Princess Pavetta, kept in the dark over her husband’s lineage and plans, had become suspicious and left the little princess Cirilla in the care of her grandmother, Queen Calanthe of Cintra. This day had triggered a whole waterfall of events: Emhyr’s ascension to the throne, the war between Nilfgaard and Cintra, the disappearance and search for Ciri, and ultimately the battle between Geralt and Vilgefortz, leading to the death of many dear friends, as well as the end of the evil sorcerer. Nobody knew what exactly had transpired on the ship, but clearly Emhyr had become aware of his daughter missing and confronted Pavetta. Going by what they had just witnessed, Emhyr’s reaction had been violent. Geralt’s opinion on the Emperor’s past actions towards his family decreased even further, if that was possible. Focussing on the present, the witcher followed Emhyr across the gardens, tailed by an increasingly restless Peter Evertsen.

“Has this not gone on long enough? We should take him back.” the chamberlain demanded, and Geralt shook his head. “No”, he shouted above the weather, “I need to know what the curse wants from him. I know what he is dreaming about-“

“Pavetta and the storm, yes”, Evertsen spat out, coming close to Geralt, “which ends in her death, be it drowning or something else – which we cannot wait for. The other night, he sought to re-enact his father’s death, in all detail, upon his own body, and would not rest until he had spilled significant amounts of his own blood. If Vattier had found him in time, he would already be dead!”

Geralt froze. “Then why did nobody share this information with me yet, and spare us all a night in the rain? Fine, let’s - damn!” he exclaimed, and raced after Emhyr, who had made use of their conversation to escape his minders. And with sudden clarity, Geralt knew where Emhyr was headed, and what magic lay upon him.

“But who-?” he wondered under his breath and started running towards the bathhouse, with Evertsen lagging behind. The doors were open to confirm his suspicion, banging against the walls with each strong gust of wind. Emhyr stood erect at the edge of the pool, posture regal in his stained nightgown. The world stilled for an endless second, Geralt frozen to the spot at the doors. “Forgive me”, the Emperor pleaded in a broken voice. Then he plunged into the water, and everything accelerated abruptly. Geralt crossed the distance with some mighty leaps and jumped into the cold pool head first, diving quickly and finding the struggling body amidst a stream of bubbles. Half-drowned, but in the grip of the curse, Emhyr still managed to bring up substantial physical force. Luckily, Geralt was no ordinary man, and with his enhanced power, he managed to drag the Emperor back towards the air. Keeping him there took some effort. Frustrated and exhausted, the witcher forced his left arm around Emhyr’s middle, keeping his head just above the water, and cast axii with his newly freed hand. To his profound relief, Emhyr sagged immediately, becoming still.

“I’ve got him”, he yelled towards Evertsen, who had just skidded to a halt at the edge of the pool. The two men stared at each other’s frightened faces, feeling their pulses beating hard in their veins. Capturing his breath, Geralt dragged Emhyr’s body to the edge of the pool. Evertsen was kneeling down to pull his Emperor out. But the moment Emhyr’s body left the water, he became agitated again.

“Wait”, Geralt grunted, and held onto the Emperor, who calmed back down once most of his body was floating under water, with just his head held up by the witcher. “He needs to be in water. This is what the curse demands, drowning. Or a credible belief that he is…”

“So you have figured it out?” Evertsen asked, dropping to sit at the edge of the pool.

“Maybe. I have once encountered a woman with terrible nightmares, who could not be woken”, Geralt huffed. “But the dreams did not make her sleepwalk like this. Then there is a revenge curse that makes a person relive their darkest hours. Maybe it’s something else entirely…”

“Stront!” the chamberlain said faintly. In this case, Geralt could not agree more. Also, he was getting cold. Not moving much, the water sucked the warmth from him. Looking at the goose bumps covering Emhyr’s skin, the Emperor fared even worse.

“Okay”, Geralt addressed Evertsen, “We need to move this to a warmer pool. Which one is body temperature?”

“The tepidarium, that one”, the chamberlain pointed out. Geralt looked around, and spotted the archway that led to the bath Evertsen pointed to. Broad stairs led out of the pool at the back side. Gently dragging the Emperor that way, Geralt eventually reached a height of water in which he could crouch down. Carefully, he cast another axii and let the Emperor’s body float over his arms. Picking him up as he walked out of the water, the witcher carried the shivering body across the short distance, and lowered him back into the warmer pool. Considering his own clattering teeth, Geralt dragged off his sodden boots and simply joined him. Keeping the Emperor’s head up against his chest, Geralt leaned against the tiled edge of the pool and sighed deeply, as the warmth of the water penetrated into his cold limbs. Evertsen, who had followed them, lent the proceedings a disapproving frown.

“I did take a shower earlier”, Geralt pointed out lightly, only to be awarded a sharper glare. Then, his face softening, Evertsen shook his head disbelievingly. “How is this keeping him calm?”

“I am using a simple piece of magic to calm his mind, telling him he is in fact dead in the peaceful depth of the ocean.” Geralt said bluntly, to Evertsen’s obvious shock. “You told me he calmed down when he hurt himself. Concerning Pavetta’s death, drowning seemed appropriate.”

“That does not make sense – if the curse aims to extract revenge…” Evertsen paused in thought.

“Or feeds on guilt?” Geralt guessed, and Evertsen seemed to consider the possibility. Eventually, the chamberlain nodded: “I will bring it into consideration with Rideaux. He witnessed that episode first-hand.”

“Good.”

Then they spoke no more, and Geralt was pleased to hear the singing of the birds over the steady tapping of the rain on the roof. Evertsen busied himself with lighting a few lanterns that were hanging off the pillars decorating the edge of the pools.

“I will inform the guards and servants, and procure a change of clothing”, Evertsen announced when he was done, and left the two of them alone with a last suspicious glance. When Geralt could not hear the chamberlain’s footsteps anymore, he quickly plucked a few hairs from Emhyr’s head, raised himself out of the water a bit, and dropped them into his wet boot lying beside the pool. Emhyr stirred in his lap, and Geralt renewed the axii, focussing on the sensation of calm floating underwater. Having nothing to do but wait and keep up the magic as long as he could, Geralt took some time to actually look at the man. Some colour had returned to the Emperor’s face and the goose bumps had disappeared. His breathing was slow and regular, interrupted only by the occasional hitch. Yet his expression showed a rare openness, a vulnerable sadness that Geralt found difficult to reconcile with the harsh ruler. On the other hand, Emhyr had spent the night relieving his wife’s death, caused in no small measure by his own actions. Starkly, Geralt remembered the slap that had split Evertson’s lip. Emhyr began to recoil from his position, and Geralt realised he had become distracted. Trying to conserve his energy until sunrise, he waited with another dose of axii and tried to concentrate on his ongoing sign instead. Drawing Emhyr back into position against Geralt’s chest, the witcher refocused his mind to calmness and observed how Emhyr’s movements stilled. He fell into a meditative trance, vaguely aware of several people entering and moving about. Evertsen was giving orders in a hushed voice, interrupted at some point in time by Mererid’s derisive huffs. More people came by and made noise. The witcher once opened his eyes briefly to find Vattier de Rideaux contemplating him with a mix of suspicion and wonder.

At long last, the first sunlight broke through the skylight in the main room and Geralt dropped axii, having spent what energy he had anyway. When the Emperor began to wake, the witcher kept his eyes closed and body relaxed, while all other senses were on full attention. Emhyr’s body tensed and a pained groan escaped his lips. Belatedly, Geralt remembered the dislocated shoulder. The sling had come lose during their nightly adventure, and either lay in the grass or floated in the cold pool. Carefully, the Emperor propped himself up in the water, a hand resting on Geralt’s chest. Curious and in need to face the inevitable sooner or later, Geralt opened his eyes into the astounded face of Emhyr var Emreis. Amidst his bedraggled looks, the brown hawk eyes stared at him in utter and complete disbelief. Trying to preserve some modesty, Geralt averted his gaze. Unintentionally, his eyes landed on Emhyr’s hairless chest, which was visible where a button or two at the neckline of his nightshirt had become undone. Geralt stoutly kept his face down, while Emhyr forcefully pushed away in the pool to come to sit across from him. While the Emperor raised himself up and out of the water, the fine white cloth of the garment clung to Emhyr’s form in ways that concealed little. Geralt might have found the view quite pleasing, had it featured a playful sorceress. But instead, as he raised his gaze unwittingly over narrow hips, a flat chest, and strong chin, he was met by the burning stare of a man he detested, and possibly pitied for his life choices. In reaction to whatever he had taken from Geralt’s expression, Emhyr scoffed nastily and turned his backside to him, displaying more of his anatomy to the witcher. With the aid of his chief chamberlain, the Emperor climbed out of the water and into the fluffy robe Mererid held out for him. Several servants flocked around him, blocking the view. Geralt got out at his own speed. Picking up his uncomfortably cold and wet boots, he nodded to Evertsen, and made his way to the changing room. He found a dry set of clothes, inconspicuously pulling a clean sock over a twist of wet hairs he stuck to his heel. He dumped the soaked garments into a bucket, and returned to collect the swords from his room, before he rode out to find Yennefer. Any though of conversation with the Emperor was forgotten.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stront! – Shit! (dutch)


	6. Missing Pieces, part 1

_Nilfgaard of Golden Towers, 9 th Velen in the year 1285 of the glorious reign of Ker'zaer Emhyr var Emreis_

 

Yennefer yawned, and rested her cheek just a little longer on the soft pillows of her bed, when she felt somebody shifting beside her. Opening her eyes to the light of day, she saw the ash-blonde hair of her daughter, who was just getting up. Yen watched her disappear into the bathroom. Her heart burned at how she had missed Ciri, all those long years! She got up herself, found a robe, and put together some breakfast from yesterday’s leftovers. Ciri had appeared in the middle of the previous afternoon, deeply upset. After recounting her father’s collapse, she had paced around and cursed for a while, then taken a long bath on Yen’s suggestion.

They were just getting ready to have breakfast, when Geralt turned up: “It might be Nemesis’ lullaby, or a godling with political ambitions”, he said in lieu of greetings, and slumped down on her settee, before taking of his boots. She was getting ready to berate him, when he plucked a few hairs from his sock and offered them to her. Mildly disgusted, she took them and placed them in a vial for safekeeping, then locked them in a drawer of her desk. Ciri was looking at them in confusion: “What the hell are you doing?” she asked, her nose crinkled up.

“I asked Geralt to get some of Emhyr’s hairs, so that we can triangulate any magic anchored to him this way”, she explained, and Ciri nodded in understanding. They had covered triangulation back then in Ellander. “But what makes you think it is Nemesis’ lullaby?” Yen asked the witcher, “That is usually little more than a pellar’s gimmick.” He told them about last night’s events. When he had finished, they shared a sombre silence, until Ciri huffed deeply.

“Well,” the young woman said, looking quite glum, “at least now I know that he did not throw my mother over board on purpose, but that she caused then storm on accident, right? Even though he was a bloede husband.”

“And that he is paying for it”, Geralt pointed out, “Nemesis’ lullaby forces the victim to relive their deeds and feeds on their guilt, so that they will suffer the pain brought onto others.” Ciri looked at the floor darkly.

“Yes”, Yen added, “but what it does not usually do is make them act them out sleepwalking, nor does it become impossible to wake someone. This is beyond the dream magic I am familiar with…”

 “So how does this triangulation work?” Geralt asked abruptly, changing the topic as he saw morose thoughts piling up in Ciri’s head. Catching on, Yen suggested Ciri explain it to him. The ash-blonde jumped at the task: “We distribute three of his hairs into the outer corners of the space we want to consider, then connect them with a spell placed onto one hair. A piece of coal is placed upon a map, and it draws lines from the locations of our hairs to all other locations of that person’s body parts, but only those that are magically active. So when somebody else uses something of his to curse him, the location of that bit of him is revealed on the map.”

Geralt frowned: “So now we just need to place hairs of his into the corners of the empire, and look at that map?”

“It’s not quite as simple, but yes.” Yen injected, “If the sample used in the curse is hidden magically, it might not work, or the readings will be imprecise. But we have an advantage.”

Ciri did a mock curtsy: “I can distribute the hairs really quickly.” Yen rolled her eyes fondly.

 “Where are you going to put them, though? We can’t exactly leave those hairs lying around”, Geralt warned, and Ciri nodded emphatically. They turned to her expectantly. She had thought about the same problems since she had sent the witcher on his task, and had come to no other viable alternative:

“We need Triss”, she said, and the others looked at her surprised. “I can begin the enchantment, but I cannot do the full triangulation from here. The risk of discovery is too great if Rideaux’s scryers monitor my actions or somebody from the academy bursts into this office. I have seen his pet mage Cynthia slinking about. We can leave one hair here, in the very south. Another needs to go to the very north, and Triss is in Kovir. Also, she is the only capable sorceress we can possibly trust with this. Apart from that, Ciri can stay with her and work on breaking the curse without drawing the attention of the Nilfgaardian court to her.”

Ciri’s face softened and she smiled, and Geralt seemed pleased as well with that solution.

“Also”, Yen added, “having Ciri there limits Triss’ options to go behind us, and Ciri can keep that hair on her in case something goes wrong. As for the third and fourth triangulation point, Ciri could hide a hair on Skellige and in Kaer Morhen.” She made a face, to her companions’ amusement. “Loathe I am to admit it, but it’s probably safer in a monster-infested cave or decrepit old castle than with anybody I know capable of holding onto something as sensitive.”

~*~

Ciri, keen to get going and perhaps also to see Triss, left immediately after their conversation, and Geralt made to leave as well.

“What will you be doing in the meantime?” the witcher asked nonchalantly, getting up from where he had sat the last hour. He joined her at the balcony doors, gazing out onto the city together.

“It’s something else, isn’t it?” he asked, not turning to face her, “Nothing like the north, so…” he trailed off.

“Clean? Vast? Beautiful?” she supplied sharply.

“Civilised”, he sighed, paused, then added, “ _modern_. People don’t even stare at me in the streets.” He shook his head in bewilderment.

“They have never seen a witcher, probably not even a monster”, she ventured.

“But how?” he swivelled around, throwing up his hands in a helpless, agitated gesture, “How can monsters just-just disappear in a whole country? There were witcher schools in the south: there was the manticore school in Touissant, but there are also still monsters there; there are monsters in Zerikkania and the bear school. I know from Letho that the viper school was disbanded before Emhyr hired them to kill the Northern kings – had they run out of monsters?”

She huffed: “If you ask a priest, they will tell you it is the purity of the faith of the Great Sun, but we both know that’s rubbish.”

“Civilisation”, he muttered again under his breath. It turned everything crazy.

~*~

_Near the town of Attre, Cintra, simultaneously:_

 

Vattier de Rideaux stood on a windy hill overlooking the city of Attre past its southern slope. On the northern horizon he could see the skyline of Cintra. The hill was speckled with gravestones, a pebbled path leading up to a small number of crypts at the very top. One of them housed the remains of the Rainfarn family, the last son of which had injured the Emperor when he had competed for Princess Pavetta’s hand in marriage. The witcher who had saved his life back then was now at the palace in Nilfgaard, trying to break another curse. Fate went in circles, the master spy thought as he stalked up the hill towards the figure waiting in the shade of the crypt.

“Matka”, he raised his cap, “my greetings.”

The elderly priestess turned to him wide-eyed, curtseying without grace: “Count Moreau, a-a pleasure. I have not seen you in a long time.”

“I have come to inquire about the woman I left in your care thirteen years ago”, he smiled thinly, a smile that quickly disappeared when her face turned ashen. “Where is she?” he asked coldly.

The woman stammered, moving backward into the crypt: “She left, my lord. A-a while ago, she-she met a man…”

 He leapt forward and pushed into her mind. With widened pupils, she told him everything. He left her weak body leaning against one of the tombs. Without wasting any time he travelled into the town. The Temple of Melitele stood tall against the midday sun. Not wishing to bother with the inhabitants, he climbed the wall to the garden and snuck into the room at the end of the dormitory that housed the sisters.

Here she had lived the last decade, since her anointment. The room was small and bare. A few books were held on a shelf, a comb, a chest with clothes. Below the garments he found a small box. It was empty. Nothing under the bed. No hair, no letters, not a single thing that left a trace of the previous owner. Apart from the light dust that settles on anything after a few days, the room was spotless. Too spotless.

With a curse and a flurry of his cloak, Vattier disappeared.

~*~

_Vizima, in the stink of the Temple District, simultaneously:_

 

“Son of a striga with zeugldung for brains!” his contact cursed, and let him into the house. “Why the nine hells do you turn up here in fucking daylight, dhu-feainn kusse!”

Delvin aep Meara knitted his eyebrows under his heavy hood at the last expletive, but when no further reaction came and the man had all but turned his back and was walking away, he huffed and closed the front door behind him. The insides of the house were as shabby as the rest of the temple district. Squeezing past a few shelves that displayed all kinds of items, the southerner found a bench to sit on by the large fireplace. He was offered a mug, and spluttered when he took a sip and found it filled with the local piss they called rye vodka instead of tea.

“I lost my comrades at the New Narakort. Roche’s lot is keeping them happy with drink and cards”, Devlin pointed out, “but I can always go back and bring them round, if you don’t like drink without company”.

Thaler snorted: “I don’t like many a thing, but mostly I don’t fucking well like exposing my naked arse to most people in the north if they get an inkling I have dealings with a pest like you, you can tell that to Roche. And on that matter, my little birds have been whispering to me about a certain ash-blonde returning to the world of the living.”

“You had written as much”, the spy pressed, “Where, when? The General needs details.”

Thaler grinned at him with yellowed teeth, and extended a hand wordlessly. Devlin dropped a large purse into it, and the informant weighed it briefly, before tucking it away with a satisfied look: “Now we talk, my dearest flower of the south. I have pulled all my strings and fished out a useful little bit of information. Our dearest whoring Princess – Adda, not Cirilla, mind you – was having a little gossip in the pretty Redanian castle of her favourite amnestied sorceress, Philippa Eilhart.”

“Adda did not grieve her husband much, did she?” Devlin scoffed.

“If rumours are true, the two rather celebrated his demise,” the informant suggested. “Regarding our other esteemed Princess: if what Adda blabbed in front of my Redanian birdies is true, Philippa has met Cirilla in Dol Blathanna, together with other sorceresses of the Lodge, and is now on the way to Velen. Piece of dung swamp full of drowners and trolls stealing shoes. That’s all”, he spat into the fire and took a large sip of vodka.

Devlin raised himself and perched his drink on the bench: “I’ll take my leave, then. See you if I must.” Thaler waved at him without getting up, and the spy let himself out of the house, once more concealed under the heavy hooded cloak. He slunk down the stairs to the sewers, where Ves was waiting for him.

“Any news, and please let them be good”, the lieutenant of the Temerian special forces muttered under her breath as they hurried back through the tunnels.

“Yes and no”, Devlin grunted. When they got below the palace, Ves unlocked the gates for them, and they slipped through. A lonely drowner, chewing on a dead rat, peered at the gate from the distance.

“Roche will be back soon from his audience with Queen Anaïs”, another Blue Stripe informed them as they entered the barracks. Waiting, Devlin’s gaze slipped from the lieutenant’s exposed collar bones to the cleavage below. Looking back up, he found her challenging gaze.

“Aep Meara!” Roche’s booming voice destroyed the moment.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dhu-feainn kusse: black-sun (Nilfgaardian) ‘genital’, as the witcher wiki translates the elder speech politely


	7. Missing Pieces, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most places, people, etc. in this story are canon, either book or games. Original Characters so far are 1 1/2: Reinard aep Matsen, and Devlin aep Meara (he is actually a canon char, but only mentioned as a soldier of the Alba Divison. I made up the rest.) Also, Mererid is strictly-speaking a chamberlain, not valet, in the games, but I found it difficult to call two people chamberlain. (Peter Evertsen being the second) I imagine that Mererid is the one responsible for Emhyr's personal household, whereas Evertsen is the "finance minister" of the Empire. Just to clarify. If you have any questions, or something seems illogical, let me know.

_Nilfgaard of Golden Towers, 9 th Velen in the year 1285 during the great magical nap of Ker’zaer Emhyr var Emreis_

 

Geralt leant against the wall of Matsen’s office, trying to meditate to pass the time the others argued about what to do next. Commander Matsen was seated behind his desk, face blank and hands folded in his lap. His eyes burned with profound frustration. Geralt felt with him. On the left of the desk, Yennefer was gesticulating passionately. Across from her, Evertsen had folded his arms across his chest with a thunderous glower, shaking his head once in a while. By the time Yen threw up her hands and Evertsen turned away, Matsen was banging his fists on the table. Geralt suspected he could have banged his head instead, for all the good it did any of them. At least there was a moment of silence, when Emhyr’s commander of the guard, chamberlain, and court sorceress stared at each other angrily.

“Could we recapitulate what we know, and which steps have been taken, just so that we might actually work together rather than waste our time?” the witcher asked grimly, losing his patience.

Matsen, not to Geralt’s surprise, yielded first: “The Impera Brigade has searched the palace and put His Majesty’s personal quarters under lockdown in response to the _attempted regicide_. Only minimal staff is permitted inside. The guard has been doubled”, he faltered, “but frankly, this is out of our metier.” The tall man sagged in his chair.

Evertsen and Yen stared at each other. “I have begun steps to trace the magic placed onto the Emperor, and results are likely to come in soon. I am confident we will find something, but I am still waiting for the results,” Yen shared grudgingly.

“Who is _we_?” a new voice came from a wall panel that opened beside the witcher, and Rideaux entered the room. His gaze focussed on Yennefer sharply. The sorceress glowered back, ostensibly unimpressed: “The tracing requires permanent attention. The young woman who visited the Emperor with Geralt is assisting me.”

Rideaux smiled bitterly: “The young woman – Queen of Cintra, Princess of Brugge, Duchess of Sodden, Heir of Ard and An Skellig, and Sovereign of Attre and Abb Yarra?” Yen’s face froze.

“So you figured that out, applause,” Geralt muttered. Yen threw him an angry glance.

“The Eye of the Great Sun never sleeps,” Matsen said lightly, which prompted Evertsen to roll his eyes. Rideaux smiled toothily.

“Then perhaps the Eye has thought about who was within touching distance of the Emperor? As I said, somebody close who him, somebody he _danced_ with?” the witcher inquired, with a sarcastic roll of the eyes.

“The Emperor really does not dance”, Yen admitted.

“Not since his marriage day, and even then just the obligatory dances”, Evertsen confirmed, flicking a piece of dust of his doublet.

“And that one time with Enid an Gleanna, of course, when he crowned her queen of the elves, just before the wedding. That became a bit of gossip”, Matsen joked weakly, “You know, with her being the most beautiful woman in the world.” Evertsen looked sour. Thinking back on his memories of Duny, the witcher realised the man had avoided close contact with people. During the festivities in honour of Pavetta’s birthday he had seemed deeply nervous, skulking around the corners of the room whenever he could. Geralt had chalked it up to Duny being a humanoid hedgehog most of the day.

Rideaux shook his head: “No need to delve into that now. I have a lead. Two hairs were removed from the Emperor’s head by his wife, Queen Cirilla of Nilfgaard.” Yen looked troubled at this, and Geralt remembered the marriage after the Peace of Cintra.

“She was uncovered an imposter, and the queen executed during the third war, before-”, he threw in, and Yen gave him a sharp glance, “Wasn’t she?” the witcher finished lamely. The three men remained pointedly silent.

“Officially”, Matsen coughed after a moment, “she committed suicide, unable to live with her shame at betraying the Emperor.” Geralt stared at him scornfully, and Matsen shrugged uncomfortably.

“As for the persistent libel of her being executed”, Rideaux said after a moment, “That never happened. She was removed from court on her own wish, and moved to a save location – from which, I might add, she disappeared a few months ago.”

Upon these revelations, everyone frowned. “That is more than suspicious, but how could she possibly have remained in possession of the hairs, if you moved her there?” asked Matsen. Geralt found he liked the commander’s way of thinking.

Rideaux pulled up another chair to the desk, and sat down, taking a cloth-wrapped scroll from his jerkin: “She did not, in fact, remain in the possession of the hairs. The captain of the guard who brought the queen to Baccàla recorded the possessions the queen carried with her that night, including a vial with two black hairs in a concealed pocket within her dress. The list”, he placed a piece of paper onto the desk, “was later copied into the most classified records of the intelligence service. As you may see for yourselves, the vial is not registered here. Only the scribes, I, and the guards and agents on duty that night would have had access to these documents. The unit on guard that night was subsequently disbanded and scattered across the realm, but I have been able to track down its two surviving members,” he looked at Yen pointedly, “Fringilla Vigo and Devlin aep Meara.”

“Who is that guy?” Geralt asked bluntly. The sorceress he knew only too well.

“One of my best men. A veteran of the battle of Brenna, under Tibor Eggebracht, deceased commander of the Alba Division, whose current commander is-“ Rideaux was interrupted by Evertsen: “Morvran Voorhis!” The chamberlain slammed his hand down on the table.

“-on whom Meara’s mission is to keep an eye on”, Rideaux resumed with annoyance.

 “We cannot know if Voorhis is behind this, or whether Meara’s loyalty has wavered. Fringilla Vigo has certainly more reason to wish the Emperor ill, but on the other hand the geas he put on her magic after the trail has kept her in line so far”, Matsen warned.

 “If not for her aid on Skellige, she would still be in dimeritium chains in the dungeons. Fringilla can certainly hold a grudge”, Yen added, “It might be high time to pay her a visit.”

~*~

_Undvig, Skellige, in the reign of Queen Cerys / Kaer Morhen, Kaedwen, under the rule of the Redanian Queen Adda / Lan Exeter, Kovir, in the reign of King Tankred_

The salty air of the isles was cold, harsh, and deeply reassuring. Ciri had appeared on the narrow path leading up to the tower. Tor Gvalch’ca lay as still and abandoned as she had left it upon her return to his world. Snow capped the mountain unerringly since, a last reminder of the White Frost. It took her a moment to locate a suitable niche in the masonry. Depositing the vial with the hair in the very back of a crack between two stones, she heaped up some snow to fill out the rest of the gap. She drew an alarm sigil into the snow, then magically froze the fluffy crystals into solid ice.

Having done the first part of the job, she took a detour to visit Skjall’s grave on Hindarsfjall, before returning to the keep where she had spent the best part of her childhood with Geralt, and Vesemir, and Eskel, Lambert… she missed them, especially Vesemir’s fondly frowning face. Another grave to visit. With sudden fury she remembered the wolf medallion the crone had stolen from her. She would get it back, and soon, she swore to herself. How could she have forgotten?

Ciri buried the third hair with Vesemir, asking her uncle’s spirit to watch over the treasure. Then she did her last jump to Kovir. She had not visited the city of canals and palaces for a long time, yet it was easy to ask around for the commune of mages who had settled there after the pogroms under Radovid. After a few hours of searching, she found Triss’ accommodation. She owned a house near the academy, where she taught the magical arts. Ciri waited there for the sorceress, huddled in the doorway, watching the gondolas pass by on the canal.

 

 


	8. Hunting

_10 th Velen, the sad leftovers of once-proud Centre Camp, southern Velen, in the rainy year 1285_

The commander of the small regiment manning the meagre remains of what used to be the magnificent Center Camp of the Nilfgaardian army was taking a piss into the bog, when the patrol blew the horn somewhere down the main road north from camp. Hurrying to do up his pants, he scuttled through the mud past the tents and towards the gates in the palisade. Climbing onto the platform, he just managed to shout to the men to open the gates, as the squadron of at least forty riders dashed towards them in the spitting rain. The pennants of the Alba Division and Blue Stripes were blowing in the wind as the horses flew into the camp and came to a halt.

“Dismount!” a command was yelled, and soldiers in the colours of Nilfgaard and Temeria led their horses to the paddock, while the squadron leaders approached the guards: “Send for the commander!” a man in the uniform of a general ordered.

“That is me! Jan aep Colvaern at your service,” the commander scurried down from the platform and bowed hurriedly, “General Voorhis! What brings you to our little outpost? Can I offer some refreshments?”

The general gave him a dubious glance. A man next to him, wearing a black chaperon, looked grimly at the dark clouds that lined the skies in the north. “There’ll be something coming down soon, we’d best not get caught in it.” The general nodded, and Colvaern led them to the mess tent. True enough, rain was starting to drum on the roofs and soak into the already soft ground. When the quickly put together meal was finished, the general requested a map, which a soldier hastened to fetch in the downpour.

“The roads are being improved from here to Oxenfurt, is that right, commander?” Voorhis asked, and Colvaern nodded: “Yes, general,” he drew his finger along the map, “here the roads from Gors Velen and Dorian meet in the south, and then the road goes up here to the camp,” he pointed at their current location. “The builders have finished the bit along Kimbolt Way, up to the bridge.”

“There is an outpost at the bridge, correct?” the man with the chaperon asked.

“Yes, uh, may I inquire as to who…?” the commander stammered, looking at the general.

“Commander Vernon Roche of the Blue Stripes, Temerian special forces in the service of Queen Anaïs la Valette”, the man introduced himself brusquely.

“Commander, your reputation precedes you”, Colvaern spluttered, “and yes, there is a checkpoint on the bridge.”

“We are looking for an ash-blonde young woman who passed through Velen eleven days ago. She was traveling with a small entourage, sighted leaving Oxenfurt through the Western Gate and turning south. Did she pass through here?” Roche asked, almost inaudible against the thunder that was rumbling above them.

“No women of your description passed through the camp, or came down the street. I will inquire with the guards on duty at the bridge”, Colvaern promised, and sent word to fetch the man. As the general and commander had suggested, a small entourage had indeed passed the bridge.

“They can’t have gone far”, Colvaern suggested to the general and commander hunched over the map, “This is Velen, only bogs as far as you can see. And those right north of here are the worst, even my soldiers wouldn’t go in there. Full of monsters, and worse, if you believe the villagers - superstitious folk the lot, can you believe? They all cut their ears off to pacify some spirit! But evil spirits or just drowners without end, nobody goes into Crookback Bog.”

Roche eyed him inquisitively: “Nobody, you say?”

~*~

EARLIER THAT DAY:

The finely tipped charcoal piece hovered over a thin, transparent sheet of paper that covered the map of the continent. Triss had set up the megascope around it and was busy attuning the crystals to the signature in Emhyr’s hair. When Ciri had asked her to help locate somebody, Triss had accepted not knowing who that person was. She trusted Ciri. Trusting was more difficult for the young witcher these days, but she tried to have faith as she watched over the hair and over the doings of the sorceress.

“Voila!” Triss eventually exclaimed, “I have a connection.”

Ciri jumped up: “Have you found something?”

Triss gesticulated calm: “I have made a connection with the other hairs that were treated with the initial binding spell. Now”, she waved over to the map, “the actual triangulation can begin.” Muttering under her breath in the elder speech, the sorceress called upon the energies of the earth to guide her. The piece of charcoal started to quiver. At first, it barely moved; then suddenly, it shot across the map to the little marking of Nilfgaard. It stopped there, and swiftly moved to Kaer Morhen, then to Lan Exeter, before it landed on Skellige, and then moved back to Nilfgaard.

“This is the area marked for the search”, Triss informed her. “It may take a while now until-huh?”

Hours later, the two women looked at the map perplexedly. Triss yawned, and knitted her brow. The reading was … odd. No result had come through, but neither had the spell finished, indicating that nothing had been found – but something could be found. The charcoal was drawing a line between Undvik and Kaer Morhen for the umpteenth time, when Ciri suddenly got up and held her face just above the map: “There…” she pointed.

And indeed, in the invisible line that the charcoal made floating above the paper, at a certain point the coal … hitched. “Let me try something”, Triss hissed and began to fiddle with the megascope. The charcoal dropped onto the paper, and then started to black out the map at an alarming speed. Not five minutes after, Triss and Ciri looked down at the satisfying result.

“I recalibrated the megascope to mark all places that the hair was _not_ ”, Triss commented, “look!” And right where Ciri had seen the coal hitch, there was indeed a white spot, not larger than a linseed. Ciri poked a needle through it and removed the paper. The needle remained stuck in the map below, marking an unnamed patch of swampland in southern Velen.

 

 


	9. The Crone and the Maiden

_The night between the 10 th and 11th Velen, 1285_

Geralt had retired to his uncomfortably soft and nice bed, leaving the Emperor’s sleepwalking in the capable hands of his guards and chamberlain. He had just buried his nose in the lavender scented sheets, when a loud crash made him jump, and a golden portal opened in the middle of his room.

“Geralt!” Yen screamed, stepping through. He wondered at first if this was her time to have that dreaded private conversation, but the sorceress just yelled at him further, gesticulating wildly with a megascope crystal in her hand: “Get your gear, Ciri has gone to follow a trace in Velen, and Triss left a message they would get back to us by nightfall, which was hours ago!”

The witcher started out of bed, struggling into his trousers and the armour he had not worn recently. Ripping his swords from the intricately-carved side table, he followed the sorceress through yet another portal. Again.

“Yen, she’s a big girl, she handled three of them the last time, I’m sure she can handle a single crone now”, he muttered, wading through the mud of Crookback Bog. The sweets in the trees had rotted away, leaving patches of mould hanging around the trunks and twigs. In-between those patches, hundreds of ears dangled from strings: fresh human ears, large ears, small ears, possibly of children. They hung in garlands over the weathered buildings that had once been the orphanage. Dozens of dead drowners lay around, so they were probably in the right place. There were lots of footprints, most of monsters, but also some of boots, more than what two women could leave, and looking like battle. While Yen raised a globe of light over the clearing, Geralt carefully leaned into the door of the old main house. Peeking past the rotten timber, the room behind was dark. Dusty and rotten furniture was still scattered about below heaps of leaves and animal traces. A few rats scurried past his feet as he carefully walked through the leftovers of the building. Near the hearth, he found the remains of a child-sized creature. Maybe a child, maybe a godling, he could not tell in the dark. Maybe it was Johnny; maybe he had gone to Novigrad after all, and it was someone else. He hoped it was, and turned away before any traces could prove him wrong.

Outside, in the light Yennefer had created, Geralt could make out more traces. In the claws of a drowner, just ahead of the mill, he found a piece of blue fabric that seemed strangely familiar. In a bush nearby something black caught his attention. Picking it up, he identified a black chaperon. Puzzled, he tucked both items into the back of his belt, and carefully tipped open the doors to the old mill. The strong smell of blood and herbs accosted him: new blood, splattered everywhere; old blood, soaked into the wood; inhuman blood, vile and black. There was a large hole where the wooden floor had been blown away. The smell grew stronger as he approached the trapdoor where a ladder still led into the cellar. He sensed nothing living. After lighting a torch, he climbed down the ladder. Bloodied handprints stained the rungs. At the bottom, he turned around carefully. In the flickering light of the torch, he could not miss the burned body in the middle of the earthen ground. It was the source of the monstrous smell, even charred as it was. No traces of fire anywhere else. Magically burned then. Clearly the body of the crone. Triss’ work? More footprints on the floor, at least six people. The misshapen imprints of the crone, a pair of small naked feet. Another child? Two larger, two smaller sets of boots. Two men, two women? At one point, a small set of boot prints got deeper. She carried something – or somebody? Drag marks. A body? In the back of the room, by the altar, Geralt found a chain and manacles hanging from the ceiling. Traces of skin, faeces, and blood in the manacles and on the ground below. Somebody was chained here, for a few days at least. The altar: bowls of burned herbs, roots. A little box full of needles and strange trinkets. Let Yen have a look. A raven skull, a red carbuncle. An empty candle holder, some traces of black wax. The candle was missing, but the smell of burned wax still permeated the air. A wooden bowl, traces of blood, wisps of fabric, the smell of hay clinging to it. This is where the curse was cast, he thought. Ciri and Triss left, and the people who fought the drowners outside, two of which came below, are gone as well. No bodies left behind: either they were skilled, or they had time to recover the dead or wounded. They were victorious, in any case.

“Yen!” he hollered, and the sorceress appeared behind him, “Look.”

“Triss destroyed the candle, I’d wager. This was most certainly where the curse was cast, the setup of the altar fits. The chains are an extra source of suffering, though.” She gagged, holding her glove in front of her nose and mouth. “I can still feel the magic here”, she mumbled through the cloth, looking ill, “This whole blasted bog is twisted, and sick, and full of smelly dead things.”

“They killed the crone”, he pointed to the burned carcass.

“Hmhm”, Yen coughed, “and the magical signatures indicate that the curse was cast here. But the hair is gone. I’m gonna be sick…” and with that, the sorceress swiftly left the cellar. The witcher followed her outside.

“Do you know what kind of magic was cast here?” he inquired, politely waiting for Yen to empty her stomach.

She gingerly shook her head, leaning against a wooden post: “We need a specialist on dreams, but I can’t think of anybody we could trust…” There was a brief pause.

“I know a woman in Novigrad, she know a lot about magical dreams,” Geralt suggested.

“The oneiromancer?” the sorceress wondered, voice rough, and he nodded.

“Good, pay her a visit. I will go to Kovir to see if Triss and Ciri are alright”, Yen spat, opening a portal. Before he could utter a word of complaint, she simply went through without him.

“Bloede pest”, Geralt said into the silence of the bog. A scornful pair of large blue eyes observed him from behind a tree.

~*~

_EARLIER THAT DAY:_

 

Devlin aep Meara had questioned various allies throughout his career. Any sensible person would, having been a soldier, then a spy in the service of the Nilfgaardian Empire. What he was now, he was not sure, apart from being a fool. When they set foot into the bog, Devlin wondered if he had left all sensibility behind. Roche was insistent that any chance of finding proof of the return of the missing princess was flying away with any minute missed on the trail. Also, he was not afraid of a few drowners. The general, fearing for his honour, had refused to be left behind on the chase. Now, as thirty-eight of forty men they had started with made their way onto the clearing, Devlin regretted ever introducing Morvran Voorhis to Vernon Roche. Truth to be told, they had all underestimated the warnings. This bog was an evil, sentient creature, set against them from the start. The squadron had left the horses behind in the difficult terrain, proceeding on foot. After the first mile of swampy ground, the impracticability of heavy armour had become obvious. Movements were sluggish, the men tired from the march before any creature had even come upon them. The weather was foul, the sight poor. After two hours of wading about, the scouts had made out a dim glow from ahead, and the full squadron had followed their lead to the clearing. A few decrepit buildings huddled in the shade of an old mill. The source of light was a magical sphere, floating above the clearing and casting a battlefield into an eerie white glow. The sounds of fighting could be heard, where dozens of the slimy creatures attacked two women standing back to back. One was sending fire bolts into the fray, clearly a sorceress of some kind. The magical attacks, however, became less useful as the creatures closed in on her. The other woman was dancing about with a sword, holding herself admirably against the onslaught.

“Attack!” Roche yelled as the squadron burst from the trees. The Blue Stripes roared as they rushed into battle. Upon Voorhis’s command, the soldiers of the Alba Division who acted as his personal escort made their way into the flank. It was dirty, and gritty, and for every foul creature slain another dug itself out of the mud.

Relieved from the immediate onslaught, the women fought their way towards the old mill and disappeared. Soon, a small explosion could be heard and light flashed from the building for a second. Voorhis followed the women, decapitating the drowner ahead of him and dodging another that was attended to by his fellow soldiers. Roche had made it to the mill as well, under heavy attack from three monsters at once. His chaperon was blown off by a sharp-clawed lunge as the Temerian buried his sword in another creature. Voorhis pierced that one in the back, while Devlin finished the third. With nonverbal agreement, they burst into the mill, only to run against a barrier. The sorceress, red hair flying out of her braids, had her hands raised and chanted under her breath. A golden dome shone from her hands, stretching down from a hole in the floor into what must be a basement. Through the hole, they could see the blonde woman embroiled in battle with a hag-like, monstrous creature, resembling an old witch from the stories.

“Stay back”, the sorceress shrieked, visibly shaking from her expense of magical energy. Not a second later, the sphere collapsed and they were blown back from a shockwave. A cackling laugh could be heard, as the old hag ascended through the hole, spewing some kind of acidic smoke as she went. Roche tried to tackle her, but succumbed to whatever she spat at him. Voorhis, realising the danger, rolled away at the last second, Devlin on his heels. Suddenly, the general was gone, and a crash followed by a pained grunt to be heard. Devlin was about to push himself back into a standing position, when his foot encountered nothing but thin air. While falling, he managed to hold onto a ladder which he had not previously seen. He still managed to cut his hand on some splintered wood. With a groan, he struggled up to come face to face with the general. Just as suddenly, they were being shoved apart by the blonde woman.

“Move!” she yelled, and brushed past them up the ladder. Still unsteady from the pain and shock, Devlin glanced around. The basement was dark, but for an altar upon which a black candle burned. With horror, his gaze was drawn to the woman hanging in chains above it. Her fair hair and skin were reddened with blood that was slowly trickling from a myriad of cuts. It was only the heavy noise of fighting that made him refocus. Biting down the pain in his knees, he dragged himself up the ladder, just in time to see from behind how a large stream of fire hit the hag in the face. She shrieked, going after the sorceress at the other end of the room. In that moment the general who had come up after him charged the beast from behind. A piercing wail could be heard, before the ash-blonde woman drew her sword up at an angle, cutting the hag apart. A second deathly blow followed. Gurgling and twitching, the monstrous body fell back through the hole in the floor, and the noise inside the mill died down.

Devlin hobbled over to where Roche was slumped against the wall. The Temerian gave him a pained smile, and let himself be helped up. Talk could be heard from outside, where the sounds of fighting were diminishing as well. Looking around, Devlin found the breathless stare of the sorceress. The ash-blonde had disappeared again. His attention was distracted when one of their men burst through the doors, and reported six men of the Alba Division wounded, and nine of Roche’s men dying or dead, another eight wounded. Roche went outside at those news, grim-faced and aided by his soldier. Devlin, still catching his breath, remained behind, finding himself alone on the ground level. With the adrenalin of the fight leaving him, the pains in his body became all the more palpable. Moving silently, he peered down the hole. The sorceress was casting some kind of spell, and soon enough the carcass of the hag glowed like embers, and turned to ash with a vile burnt smell rising from the remains.

From where he stood, Devlin could see the general standing in the cellar, but he could not see the blonde. Crouching, he managed to peer deeper down through the hole. The bleeding woman had been freed of her chains, and lowered to the ground on the cloak of the blonde, who was crouched over her. The sorceress had joined them, and they were discussing something. Then the sorceress opened a portal and dragged the injured woman towards it.

“Halt!” the general ordered, not as loud or commanding as he usually did. The blonde waved at the sorceress, who disappeared in the portal. Devlin only managed to get a fleeting look at the injured woman, feeling he should know her, but unable to put the pieces together. It was only when she was gone, and he redirected his attention to the other blonde, that he realised how remarkably similar the two of them looked. Ash-blonde, noble features, the same built, in their late twenties maybe. But the woman remaining was a fighter, the scar on her face old. The other woman’s face had been half-burned.

“Cirilla…” Morvran Voorhis breathed. Devlin could only see the general from behind, but his posture had gone completely stiff.

The scarred blonde considered the general suspiciously, then said with an easy boredom that did not fool the spy: “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You were at the palace in Vizima, werent’t you?”

“Indeed”, the general admitted conversationally, “General Morvran Voorhis, at your service”.

“It has been a pleasure to meet you again, General”, she said in mock friendliness, “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry. Will your men be alright?” She actually seemed to expect an answer. Her green eyes bore into his face unabashedly.

“We suffered serious losses,” the general admitted in a pained voice, “an extra fighter would be welcome on the way back.”

“Let’s get moving, then, General Morvran Voorhis”, she said, and then crossed the distance to the ladder faster than anybody could possibly follow. With aching joints, Devlin scrambled up from his peeking position, only to find Roche returning to the mill and hugging the woman. They clearly knew each other. Taking note of the general’s appearance, Roche shot him an almost apologetic glance, then left the woman to Ves, who hugged her as well. The two women left, chatting excitedly.

“She is alive, then”, the general commented gravely. Roche inclined his head with a self-satisfied smile. Voorhis, judging by his expression, did not appreciate the Temerian’s delight.

“She is something though, isn’t she?” Roche suggested.

Voorhis looked uncomfortable, and Roche’s smile dropped. Then the general shook his head, wincing: “Let’s get moving.” He walked away, Roche on his heels.

Devlin aep Meara looked after them, not knowing what to make of what he had just seen.

 

 


	10. No Man's Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of the first 'act' of this story. For those who started reading this story early: I've broken up one longer story into three acts, making this a series. Nothing else has changed. The next part of the series immediately continues this story line - so just keep reading once I update!

_southern Velen, before dawn, 11 th Velen 1285_

 

Geralt had looked around a little more, given that Yennefer had stranded him in Velen with only his most basic gear, in the middle of the night, in Crookback Bog of all places cosy and safe. Cursing under his breath, he set off down the path where a rotten piece of wood still marked a moderately dry way out of the clearing. He almost missed the Nilfgaardian shield lost in the mud. Going by its state, it must have been dropped recently. Tracks confirmed that the shield had been used in battle earlier that day. Geralt dragged the chaperon and blue cloth from his belt, and looked at them again. The hat gave him no answers. For the night, the witcher required a place to sleep and restock his travelling gear. He thought about making his way back to the closest village, when he stumbled upon more tracks. A whole group of people had passed towards the south-east. Following the trail, the witcher soon emerged on the street once leading to the large Nilfgaardian army camp. Now, in the distance, he could only make out a small number of lights. Nearing the downsized remains of the once-impressive palisades, he lit a torch and caught the attention of the guard.

“No visitors for days, and then there is a whole lot of you in one day”, the soldier on duty joked as Geralt entered the camp.

“Who else has come?” the witcher wondered loudly.

“Ah, Temerian forces, and some of ours”, the guard told him.

“A man wearing a black chaperone was not by any chance among them?” Geralt inquired, and when the guard looked at him suspiciously. Geralt cast a sign inconspicuously: “Where are the soldiers now?”

“In their tents, over there, and some are with the healer – went into the bog, no ear for a warning, those”, the guard mumbled, pupils wide with axii.

Geralt walked through the gate and towards the mess tent. Another guard nodded at him as he drew away the flap of fabric serving as a door. A table to the side served as a counter, behind which a blonde woman in blue uniform was pouring some glasses of vodka when he entered. She almost dropped the lot when she turned and saw him.

“Geralt!” she quickly placed the cups back onto the counter, and gave him a brief hug, “I’d say what a surprise, but given who I just saw earlier, you are not the greatest today.” Ves lowered her voice: “Are you looking for Ciri?”

So Ciri had been there and had encountered the soldiers. “Yes, and I would like to hear what happened, perhaps somewhere private?” he asked, glancing at the other soldiers gathered in the tent. She cocked her head and gave him a lewd wink. Some of the men cheered as they left. Geralt followed Ves to a dark spot between the tents.

“Why are the Blue Stripes in Velen?” he asked her, once they were out of earshot.

“Thaler had information that Ciri was on the way here”, Ves replied, “We tried to find her.”

“Where did Thaler get the information?” Geralt frowned. They had tried to lay low, and after years in different worlds, the witcher had hoped that this realm had moved on from its mad searches for her.

“Adda”, Ves told him. Apparently the widowed queen of Redania and Kaedwen had revealed in front of one of Thaler’s spies that Ciri was travelling from Oxenfurt to Velen. The Blue Stripes and a regiment of Nilfgaardian allies had set out from Vizima yesterday to find her. Geralt was confused. Obviously he had missed a lot in the last hours.

“I need to talk to Roche”, he concluded, “What of Ciri?”

“She is still here, in the commander’s tent, with Roche and General Voorhis”, Ves told him.

Geralt froze: “Did you say Voorhis?”

~*~

_Just a little earlier:_

She observed the two men in the large tent with her. The commander of the camp had left earlier with some excuse, and now it was only the three of them sharing the tense silence. Roche was pacing the small free space of wooden floor by the entrance. He looked different without his black chaperone, somehow more rugged with this tousled brunette curls hanging past the ear. With the smouldering dark eyes, she noted, the commander of the Blue Stripes was quite handsome for a man much her senior. What concerned her more in that moment, though, were the questioning glances Roche repeatedly threw to the third person present. Ciri could not imagine their encounter to be chance, but the thought that they had found her in Velen on purpose was even more unbelievable and frightening.

Morvran Voorhis sat at the commander’s dining table, forearms resting on the wood, eyes closed and face furrowed in thought. His posture was straight, but with a stiffness that spoke of exhaustion. He had been to see a healer earlier, and had returned to the tent for a meal without his armour. The uptight Nilfgaardian clothing revealed nothing, but from the caution with which the general moved, Ciri suspected bruised ribs and a sprained ankle. The knees also appeared to hurt the man, given how carefully he had sat down and not risen again. She vaguely remembered him falling through the trapdoor into the cellar of the mill. For the first time, she had an opportunity to study him closer. In Vizima, all those years ago, she had encountered him briefly when she had stormed out the audience with her father, finding Geralt talking to the stranger. Only later she had learned his identity, by then unable to remember any details of the man. Voorhis had the features commonly associated with Nilfgaardian aristocracy: he was pale, with a striking nose and high cheekbones. Soft lines ran across his forehead, and from his nose past the corners of his straight mouth. The hairline receding at the temples, his blond tresses touching his shoulders were lank and wet. The dark bags under his eyes did not much to improve the look. He reminded her a bit of a wet barsoi.

Yet there was something alert about him, something subtle and dangerous which prevented her from underestimating the general. Apart from his obvious military experience, he had demonstrated courage attacking the crone. In consternation, she wondered if he had purposefully killed the monstrous being, or if he had been unaware of the secrets the crone had taken to the fiery grave. Now one of Ciri’s two traces was cold.

“What brought you to the bog in this weather?” she refused to endure the silence further. Roche stopped pacing beside her. Voorhis opened his eyes, his face a mask of neutrality.

Roche huffed: “We received intelligence that you were there!” the Temerian spat, throwing a challenging glare to Voorhis, “We needed to talk to you, see if you were truly alive.”

“Well, last I checked I was”, she snorted. Inside, her heart was beating rapidly. Anything was supposed to happen but this! She did not know what to do, woefully unprepared to know which strategy was most likely to get her out of this conversation without dire repercussions. This was exactly what she had meant when she told her father she could not be an empress.

Voorhis crumbled his brow and sighed: “The matter is a little more delicate from my position, as you may appreciate.”

She raised her eyebrows at him: “Yet you have run your sword through the monster and not me. You passed up on a great opportunity.”

He gave her a look of disgust. She just kept glaring at him.

“So you don’t want me dead, and you have not yet made me an offer of marriage. What do you want?” she probed. When Voorhis did not reply, she turned to Roche with a questioning face.

The Temerian blushed and looked at the general: “Excuse me”, he muttered and left the tent abruptly. Voices could be heard from outside, but she did not pay them any attention. Instead, Ciri turned back to Voorhis, folding her hands over her chest in daring silence.

“ _Not yet_ ”, Voorhis said pointedly.

~*~

Geralt had been about to go in, a pair of wet, sullen-looking guards be damned, when Roche stormed out of the tent. In mutual surprise, they stared at each other, until Geralt drew the chaperon from his belt and held it out to Roche. The commander of the Blue Stripes took it with a disbelieving shake of his head, and tucked the hat under his arm. They exchanged some quick pleasantries, until Geralt discreetly mentioned Ciri.

“Look-”, Roche said apologetically, half-turning to the tent behind him, when the flap at the entrance was pushed aside a second time and the aforementioned bolted out.

“Geralt!” she exclaimed in surprise. Then her features formed back into anger: “We’re leaving.” She grasped his hand, and he touched her shoulder, drawing her close while looking in suspicion at the tent entrance. In the brief moment before the flap fell back into place, he spotted the outlines of a man laboriously raising himself from a kneeling position.

“Roche, what is the meaning- of this?” he was left to ask into the dark of the forest, to where Ciri had teleported them. She kept holding onto him, clearly upset, and he just held her, not knowing what else to do.

“It’s never gonna change, isn’t it?” she asked into his shoulder.

“What it?” he asked gently, letting go of her and searching her tear-stained face.

“Somebody hunting the elder blood”, she said bitterly.

At some distance, they heard the wolves howling.

 

 


End file.
